


Nothing else matters

by Naraht



Series: Mirror universe [2]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Abusive Relationship, Alternate Universe - Dark, F/M, Mirror Universe, Sexism, Sexual Harassment, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-08
Updated: 2010-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-08 19:07:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naraht/pseuds/Naraht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beverly discovers that being the Captain's Woman is not everything she might have hoped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story, the sequel to "How to advance your career through marriage," is set in the mirror universe, around the time of _Encounter at Farpoint_. The universe and characters alike belong to Paramount, with the exception of James and Sufiyyah.
> 
> I owe thanks to Helen, Shanith, mon capitaine, mackillian, and my mother for their helpful comments and invaluable proof-reading. Most of all I would like to thank Zephyr, without whom there would have been no plot at all.

>   
> "If thou didst ever thy dear father love—   
> Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder."  
>  —Hamlet 

Space is infinite and silent. The inside of the shuttlecraft, however, was not; and the noise of the two boys in the confined space was finally more than she could bear.

"Will you two be quiet?" Beverly snapped. "I can't hear myself think."

"Sorry, mom," replied Wesley reluctantly. He was not sorry, of course, but she didn't particularly care, just as long as he was willing to leave her to her work. She could not now remember at what point a four-hour shuttle transit to the Enterprise had seemed like a good idea.

Turning back to her Padd with a sigh, Beverly attempted to refocus her mind on the series of neurogenetics abstracts through which she had been scrolling. Despite all her best efforts a part of her remained vigilant, just counting down the time until the next interruption.

It came in less than five minutes. She should not have expected longer.

"Mom," Wesley began conversationally, the last rebuke already forgotten, "did you know that the Enterprise has twice the computing power of a Miranda-class starship?"

He said it as if he were doing her a favour by sharing the fact, or simply by diverting her from her self-imposed isolation.

"I might have, Wesley. But I can't see why I would be interested."

"I'm interested," he said, affronted.

Beverly shook her head at him, and turned back to her Padd, shifting to tuck her legs up underneath her. _Now, where was I…_

"You shouldn't put your boots…" began James.

"Up on the chair, I know. But it's not your responsibility if I do." She looked at her youngest son, fighting quite unsuccessfully to contain her exasperation. _How long did that take this time? Five seconds? Do they have no self-control at all?_ "You're both supposed to be bright boys. You're not babies anymore. Can't you leave me alone for an hour, just until we reach the Enterprise? This is getting ridiculous—I don't know how I can expect them to take me seriously as CMO with the two of you in tow!"

_I can hardly take myself seriously,_ Beverly thought ruefully.

Her pronouncement was met with shocked silence. The boys stared at her. She had got their attention at least.

"Oh, don't look at me like that," she said. "I'm bringing you along, aren't I? But you both have to understand that being onboard the Enterprise isn't going to be like living in San Francisco. You're going to have to toe the line. There are no other children on board, and Starfleet had to give exceptional permission for you to be there." When she thought of the things that she had done, and the promises that she had made, in order to be allowed to keep her children with her… No one could say that she didn't love them. If only they knew. "So you're going to have to behave yourselves, that's all I'm saying. Captain Picard doesn't like children, and he only agreed to have you—as a special favour," she finished, somewhat lamely.

They appeared to be taking this in, briefly. Then James spoke up.

"What's Captain Picard like, Mom?"

The question gave Beverly pause, although it should not have. There was no real reason why James should remember Jean-Luc; after all, she herself had not seen him in two years, and that had only been a brief weekend at a hotel in Dakar, snatched while he was on leave, and the boys were visiting friends. He had not stayed with Beverly for… years before that, at least, while James was still small. She had not wanted to explain the situation to her sons.

_Why should he remember Jean-Luc, anyway, when he can't remember his own father?_ she asked herself, entirely irrelevantly. _And when his own father never saw him born?_

"Can't you remember him at all?" asked Wesley, his thoughts more straightforward than Beverly's own. "You're such a baby, James."

"Am not," retorted James automatically. "So what's he like, then?"

Wesley's reply was instant, and said with deep conviction. "He's a pain."

"Wesley!"

"Well, he is, mom. He doesn't like children—you said so yourself. And we always had to be really good when he was around, and he acted like we weren't even there. And…" He had been speaking with the air of one enumerating facts; but here, his face darkened, and he paused. "And he wasn't very nice to you," he said, finally.

"All you have to do is stay out of his way," said Beverly briskly. "As for me, I can take care of myself."

Of course I can, she thought as she went back to her Padd.

***

As he began, so he intended to go on. Control, as in all things, was key.

Halfway through his first staff meeting on board the Enterprise, Jean-Luc Picard took a careful sip of Earl Grey and surveyed his ready room, allowing himself to relax just fractionally from the state of vigilance that he had maintained ever since coming aboard.

The meeting was small and focused—just as he preferred. Between them, a captain, first officer, and political officer could control a starship utterly… and must, if they were to succeed. To consult regularly with any more staff members was a sign of weakness, indecision or ignorance, any one of which—or the appearance thereof—could be fatal. Especially when one had just taken on a new command.

The Enterprise was a massive ship compared to the Stargazer, every aspect of her operations complex and byzantine. Picard had been used to holding every string of power within his own hands, handling his command as if it were his puppet, a light and jointed thing. This he would have to give up, and learn to rule at a remove, if he were to rule at all. He would do it, because it must be done. But it would not be done easily.

"And the delegates?" he asked, setting the cup down again.

"All of them are aboard now, sir," replied Will Riker, consulting his Padd. "Admirals Nechayev, Wallace, and Jellico; Captains Cheung, Soutphommasane, Keel, Ashbridge and Leete; and the secretary to the delegation, Lieutenant Commander Remmick. They've all been assigned quarters on decks eight and ten."

"There was a bit of a dispute over the disposition of the largest suite," came a quietly amused voice from behind Riker, "but it's been resolved satisfactorily. Satisfactorily to Admiral Nechayev, at least."

Picard took a moment to study the speaker—Commander Sufiyyah Cohen. She had taken her seat on the ready room couch with an air of perfect composure, not showing the slight dissatisfaction that one would expect her to feel at being removed, however small a distance, from the centre of the discussion.

She was deceptively small, almost delicate, but tidily built rather than graceful—a sly, sharp, slip of a thing, dark-eyed, with her black hair cropped efficiently short. Picard had liked the woman little when she had been his security officer on board the Stargazer. Now, after a lapse of seven years, he found that he liked her even less. It was not that he believed her incapable—quite the opposite. She had always been professional, alert… and only too aware of her own abilities. At thirty-five, she was very young to have made political officer, younger even than Beverly. (Not, he reminded himself, that Beverly was so young anymore.) She had no patron, no allegiances other than her duty to Starfleet Command, and she was tracked for fast promotion. Highly dangerous… certainly more so than Riker, whose ambition clearly ran no further than the next woman.

Picard made it a point to know his crew to a fault, and while Riker's were obvious, Cohen had none that he could discern. Points of weakness? She had worked closely with Jack Crusher on the Stargazer, and there had been whispers, but Picard had never believed them himself. In any case, Jack was long dead, and quiet in his grave.

She had no immediate family over whom he could exert leverage, and no siblings; her parents, both agronomists, lived in peaceful retirement on New Lebanon. And, most crucially, she had the support of Starfleet. There was nothing he could find that would stick. But he would be damned if he was not going to find something.

Her dark eyes had met his; she did not flinch from his gaze, but instead looked back calmly enough.

"Thank you, Commander," he replied, not masking the chill in his tone. He would not make the pretence of politeness to a woman whose sole purpose was to act a Starfleet spy on himself and his crew.

Riker's smile was only half-hidden by his goatee. Picard wished it had been more so, and his disapproving look made this entirely clear.

"We'll be underway after the arrival of our last forty-seven crewmembers," said Riker, quickly turning his attention back to the question at hand. "The senior staff is already on board, except for the Chief Medical Officer, who'll be arriving by shuttle later today."

_Beverly._

"With her two sons," Riker added, obviously fishing for reaction to a fact that Picard knew quite well already.

"Yes," said Picard peremptorily. "Beverly, Wesley and James Crusher. They are to be allocated a suite."

"Yes, sir." Riker busied himself with his Padd, burying whatever amusement remained to him. And rightly so.

"Now, as to the conference …"

***

Cohen neither liked nor disliked the woman. Such, at least, was what she told herself. Neither Beverly Crusher's official file nor her reputation in Starfleet provided a sound enough basis on which to make any judgment. Within Starfleet Command, that imperial palace of cloud-capped towers, Crusher was a cipher, a researcher whose concerns stretched no further than her own immediate interests, and who was thus in turn of concern to no one.

What knowledge Cohen did possess of Beverly—for she had never met the woman—came from a source wholly unofficial, beyond political channels or intelligence files. Her knowledge, in fact, was too personal to be of any use to the political officer of the ISS Enterprise.

So she maintained nothing more than an equable interest as she waited for the final member of the Enterprise's senior staff to emerge from the shuttlecraft. _Jack's wife._

Standing framed by the doorway, she was instantly recognizable: that flaming red hair, falling in waves to her shoulders; that elongated frame, which made her seem much taller than she was in actuality. She took a few steps out of the shuttle and stopped, coming to attention with a slightly supercilious grace.

"Commander Beverly Crusher, reporting for duty."

_I'm not who she expected,_ thought Cohen, unsurprised. She gave the woman a small nod of acknowledgement.

"Doctor Crusher; Commander Sufiyyah Cohen. I'm the Enterprise political officer. Welcome aboard."

"Thank you," said Beverly, relaxing her stance, and pulling the strap of her bag further up onto her shoulder. She appeared less composed than she had seemed on first inspection: her hair just a little disarranged, her manner distracted. Odd how uniforms fabricated out of the most advanced materials could still manage to look distinctly rumpled. But then, very few people had the wherewithal to look put together after a four-hour shuttle transfer.

"I hope your trip was pleasant."

"Let's just say it's good to be on board the Enterprise." Beverly's smile was ironic, a half quirk of her thin lips that seemed to suggest a moment shared, yet offered no real intimacy. An indication of the woman's character, perhaps?

But before Cohen had the time to consider any further, a flash of movement caught her eye. Behind Beverly, lingering uncertainly in the doorway of the shuttle, were her two sons: delicate, wide-eyed boys, the older nearly as tall as Cohen herself. Neither, to her eyes, had much of their father in them.

"I see you've brought your entourage along."

Beverly turned to follow Cohen's gaze. "My sons. Wesley and James Crusher."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," said Cohen solemnly, as the boys trailed forward to their mother's side. James, with his mother's hand on his shoulder, smiled in answer; Wesley, quite properly, appeared more non-committal.

"Thank you, ma'am," he replied with equal solemnity.

But Beverly's eyes were thoughtful. "Sufiyyah Cohen…" she said. "The name sounds familiar."

"Yes, it would. I served as tactical officer on the Stargazer, with your husband."

The silence was just a bit deeper, and a bit longer, than one would expect.

"Well," said Cohen, "if you'll come with me, I'll show you to your quarters."

***

 

To Beverly Crusher, who had grown used to the facilities at Starfleet Medical, the sickbay of the ISS Enterprise seemed woefully under-equipped. She sat at the desk in her new office, looking over the inventory with which she had been provided—and shook her head. Even the office itself was inadequate, a glassed-in cubicle placed right by the main doors to sickbay, open to any casual enquirer who drifted by. It had been designed as if the CMO was expected to be involved in every aspect of the department's operations, from plague to plasma burns to scraped knees. It was ridiculous. She was a specialist, for heaven's sake, and the CMO of a Galaxy-class starship could hardly be expected to work as a glorified family doctor.

And as for the laboratories, they were hardly worth the name. There were only two assigned to Medical, and both were attached directly to sickbay, obviously intended for the analysis and culturing of relevant organisms and DNA strands, the manufacture of retroviral therapies, and little else. Only one of them was suited for the handling of infectious agents, and it was not remotely adequate for what she had in mind. Not at all.

_I'll just have to speak to Jean-Luc about it—to Captain Picard, she firmly corrected herself. There must be some lab space that can be freed up on this ship… Let's see…_

 

It was almost twenty minutes later when Wesley burst into her office in a state of high excitement.

"Mom, this ship is absolutely amazing!" he said, leaning forward across her desk. "I've already seen the arboretum, and the rec deck, and…"

His dark eyes were shining with enthusiasm; it had been a long while since she had seen him so happy.

She sighed. "The only part of this ship that you should be seeing, young man, is our quarters… at least until I can find someone to tutor you and your brother."

"But mom," he continued, radiance undimmed, "Commander Riker said that he would show me the holodeck tomorrow, and if he says it's all right, then it must be. Because he's the second-in-command."

"And you are most certainly not going anywhere with Commander Riker," she interrupted, "whether or not he says it's all right." The prospect of Will Riker, whose reputation had preceded him, demonstrating the uses of a holodeck to her fifteen-year-old son—to her very innocent, very impressionable fifteen-year-old son—didn't bear thinking about. _Never mind that when I was his age, I had already… but that's something else entirely._

"He said he would tell me about Starfleet," Wesley was continuing wistfully. "Tell me how I could succeed at the Academy, things like that."

"Wesley…"

"If dad were alive, mom—but he isn't alive…"

As if he blamed her for the fact. Just another way in which he used her guilt so skilfully. She might be CMO of the Enterprise, but as always, she was made wholly inadequate when faced with her own son.

"If you want to know about the Academy—Wes, I took classes at the Academy. I'm a full Commander in Starfleet. I could tell you whatever you want to know."

"But that's different, mom."

"Because you don't want to hear these things from your mother?"

He said nothing, just looked at her, that sullen, disdainful look that she saw from him far too frequently these days. _Oh, Wesley, what haven't I done for you?_

"Is there anything else?" she prompted. "Or are you going to let me get back to my work?"

"Can't you at least take me to see the bridge? Just once, just from the turbolift? If you do that, I won't ask for anything else; I won't complain again. I promise."

He said it sincerely. And she did believe him, as far as such belief could be carried. But there was no way that she could possibly grant his request.

"You're here on sufferance, Wes," she said, shaking her head. "You need to remember that."

For a moment she thought that he would turn and leave in disgust, without saying anything more. But then, his voice mocking, he threw one final dart at her:

"Are you afraid of Captain Picard, mom?"

And it hit its target. Yes, it did.

"Of course not," she said quietly.

***

Riker leaned back in his desk chair, giving her a speculative look. Beverly could tell that his mind was not running entirely on the subject at hand. She knew the type.

"Your priorities are all wrong," she said, trying to push her argument home. "Deck after deck devoted to photon torpedoes and offensive terraformers and subspace charges…"

"You're on the Empire's flagship," he replied, gesturing expansively towards the window, to the curve of the secondary hull stretching away outside, gunmetal grey in the dim interstellar light, and to the great warp nacelles beyond. The stars slipping past, streaking away from them. "We're out here to conquer worlds, not to act as some glorified science ship. If you want to do research," he added with scorn, "that's what planets are for."

"Starfleet has never understood the potential of medical research! Just one laboratory, that's all I'm asking. With such a small input of resources, the potential benefits…"

But she was just wasting her breath on Riker: he was a petty tyrant, with neither the imagination to grasp what she was suggesting, nor the power to give her what she wanted.

"If you won't authorize this," she said slowly, controlling her temper, "then I'll have to go to Captain Picard." Which she had been unable to do in the first place, because Picard's yeoman had insisted that she speak first with the executive officer.

Riker shrugged lazily, as if the matter were of no interest to him. "All requests for allocation of resources go through me," he said, with an air of insufferable self-satisfaction. "The captain is too busy to be bothered with things like this, especially with the delegation on board at the moment. It's making a lot of extra work for all of us."

"What delegation? I wasn't informed of anything…"

"It doesn't concern the medical department."

_And I'm nothing on this ship. Yes, I get the message very clearly._ Beverly sighed; it was all she could do. What she would have liked to do was to wipe the smug look off his face—surgically, if possible.

"Let me give you some advice, Beverly," he continued. "You can go on fighting this, if you want, but I can tell you now that you're not going to win. Better to let it go, and just give in now. Personally, I find that life is a lot more enjoyable when you bow to the inevitable…"

His smile, under the goatee, was predatory. Beverly sat silently, her hands folded in her lap—her nails digging painfully into her palms. _Why don't you just come out and say it? It's not as if I haven't heard it before…_

"And I'm sure you don't give in easily… but I'd love to find out."

The suggestion should not have surprised her. Just the thought should not have made her skin crawl. As an unprotected single woman under his command, Beverly was, of course, fair game in every sense that Will Riker would understand. Not that knowing the fact made it any easier.

"I'm not that kind of woman, Commander," she said simply.

"Funny, you seem like just that kind of woman to me." She could feel his eyes on her body, and she prayed that he was too lazy to try to take by force what he had been denied. "Interested in having a good time, and not too particular about where she finds it."

Beverly quickly got to her feet and left without saying another word, forcing herself to swallow down her anger. It felt as if it would choke her.

 

By the time she reached her quarters, she found herself crying instead, tears of pure frustration and helpless rage. She locked the door behind her, threw herself down on the couch, and wept bitterly. _Damn him, damn them all, every last one of them… Even Jack, for dying and leaving me alone…_

"What's wrong, mom?" The question was quiet, tentative. Beverly looked up, through the haze in her vision: it was James, emerging from the door to his bedroom. She had not thought that he would hear her.

"Nothing, honey, nothing," she said, wiping uselessly at the tears rolling down her face.

But he came up to her, and put his hand on her shoulder. "Don't cry, mom. Please don't cry."

And Beverly put her arms around her son, as tightly as she could, and held him close.

***

 

There was one member of the crew whose physical she was determined to do herself. He came into sickbay with every show of reluctance, waving off a nurse who fluttered around him deferentially.

"If it weren't for you," he said, in a grudging undertone, "I wouldn't have come in here at all."

"I've scheduled a private room for your physical, Captain," replied Beverly, sweetly professional. _Despite my lack of space,_ she thought to herself. "If you'll come through here…"

He stiffly took a seat on the edge of the diagnostic table, his spine ramrod straight, wary and ill at ease even then. Even though it was just the two of them.

"I don't bite, Captain," she said mildly, taking her scanner in her hand—and his hazel eyes flickered up to meet hers for a moment. But then he broke the gaze, turning his head slightly away as he resettled himself on the table.

"I don't know why I should have to come in here at all," he said impatiently.

"Because if one of your subordinates should happen to poison you, I'd like to have the baseline scans to prove to Starfleet that it wasn't a natural death."

"Mmm."

"And I would like a look at that artificial heart of yours, just to make sure that there are no problems with it…"

"I'd prefer it if that information weren't made general knowledge, by the way."

"Jean-Luc," she said, in quiet reproach, "I've known that you had an artificial heart for twelve years now. I've never told anyone." She could not have failed to notice it, that very first time that she had been close to him: its regular beats playing a counterpoint to the wild beating of her own heart. "Now, if you could just lie down for me…"

Another startled look. He had never been put in this sort of position by her before. Not quite. But then, she had never been his doctor before.

"I need you to be still so that I can get a closer scan," she patiently explained. With nothing more than a small grunt of protest, he complied, lying flat on the table. He was on her turf now, and he knew it. _Now I have you just where I want you,_ she thought wickedly, unable to keep a small smile off of her face.

"How long will this take?"

"Only a few minutes. And there was something I wanted to talk to you about…"

She scanned him slowly, carefully, keeping him still with one hand placed lightly on the flat of the chest. Her captive audience. And as she did so, she spoke, unfolding the tale—the true tale—of her orphaned research project, and the potential benefits that it offered: to Starfleet, to the Empire… and to him. She could have run the scans in her sleep and saved them to analyse later. But she kept her lowered gaze upon the luminous display screen, feeling his eyes flickering across her own face—not appraising, as Riker's had been, but intent. Searching.

"If you could grant me the power to requisition some laboratory space," she finished, "it would…"

"Speak to Riker about it," he said, shifting slightly under her hand.

_Damn._

"I've spoken to Riker about it," she replied, as calmly as she could, and started the cardiovascular series again. "He refused to approve my request, and told me that there was no use going to you, because you would back him up without question."

That was not the only thing that Riker had said, of course. But Beverly dared not mention it to him, uncertain of how he would react. It had been so long.

Now, unable to plausibly prolong the scans any further, she let her eyes drift up from the screen, to meet his own. His gaze was intense, piercing, and it brought with it that familiar pull—as if it could warm her from within.

"Beverly…" he said.

"Hmm?" With a start, she realised that her hand was still resting idly on his chest; she could feel his slow inhalations, and the bass vibrations of his voice. Guiltily, she pulled it away.

"I'll consider it," he said, all formality, and sat up, tugging his tunic down sharply. "Write me a report on the subject, and bring it to me this evening."

"This evening?" echoed Beverly, alarmed. _Two days would be reasonable; I could even have it done by tomorrow; but this evening…?_

"In my quarters."

And he left without a backwards glance at her.

***


	2. Chapter 2

***

"Remember to do your homework, and have something decent for supper…" said Beverly, rushing to collect her Padd from the dining room table while pulling on her lab coat. "Oh—and Wesley, make sure that James goes to bed at a reasonable hour. I may not be back until very late."

Wesley sat at the table, hunched over the scattered pieces of a disassembled circuit, examining it with uncanny concentration. He did not look up at her.

"Why do I have to make sure James goes to bed?" he asked, sulkily.

"Because you're older, and because you're supposed to be responsible. That's what your teachers tell me, anyway." She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, brushing away a stray lock of his dark hair. If he did not respond, he tolerated it at least, sitting motionless over his project, head bowed. Only fifteen, not yet so old that he had entirely outgrown the influence of his mother. He was small for his age—a couple of inches shorter than her, still—and she had not chosen to give him the hormone treatment that would have allowed him to catch up on his growth. He would never be as tall as Jack had been, not naturally, and for the moment at least, he was still her little boy.

"All right, Wes?" she prompted, retrieving a hair clip from the midst of his circuitry and fastening her hair back in a perfunctory twist. She had no time to change out of her uniform, much less to do her makeup again.

"Yes, all right," he replied reluctantly. "I'll do it."

"Good. And Wes, listen to me carefully—I don't want to be disturbed, so neither of you had better call me. I won't answer."

"Where are you going, anyway?"

"Oh, I have some research to catch up on," she said lightly.

"Research, mom?" he echoed, the word oddly drawn out and emphasised. He was looking up at her now, one eyebrow raised sceptically, studying her with the same intensity that he had turned upon his project.

_Damn. He's brighter than Jack was, that's for sure._

"Yes, Wesley," she replied sharply. "Research."

And as she left, pulling her lab coat more closely around her shoulders, an even more unpleasant thought occurred to her. _Maybe he remembers… _

But it was not one upon which she cared to dwell.

***

He sat and waited for her to come, sipping at a cup of tea that was gradually going cold. His Shakespeare lay on the table at his hand, but he had not the patience to go back to _Hamlet_ now. The insistent demands of his position as a starship captain left him out of the habit of reflection, unwilling to allow himself to relax, even in the brief respites that he was granted. He had been a scholar once.

Looking around the dim room he could not help but think of her. Never once had he known her to arrive on time—not even that last time in Dakar, when she had appeared two and a half hours late, talking of the children and a missed connection in Brasilia. The weather had been unbearably hot—unsurprising—and Beverly had worn only a light linen shift, the contours of her body plain beneath it. They had argued briefly, strolling along the seaside; Beverly had insisted upon exploring the city. But her resolve had not lasted long. The rest of the weekend they had spent, far more memorably, in their hotel room, exploring one another. He remembered trailing his finger ever so slowly across her sunburnt skin… Her sighs…

Oh, Beverly. Unreliable, passionate, emotional Beverly. Nothing in the least like him. He turned, twisted in his chair, helpless with the thought of her. _Damn you, Beverly, how do you do this to me? And where are you?_

The chirp of the door came, of course, just after he had once again taken up his book, determined to put her out of his mind. With a sharp sigh he threw it down; then, more considered, retrieved it and laid it opened on his lap.

"Come."

It was Beverly. She entered cautiously, coming only a few slow steps into the room before stopping and giving him a questioning glance. Her footfalls were so light that, had he been reading, he would hardly have noticed her. Yet notice her he did. She had come to him still in her uniform and lab coat, her auburn hair clipped back in a most utilitarian fashion, as if she had no thought of anything other than what lay on the surface between them.

"Captain," she said, in that light, breathy, innocent way of hers, "I have that report you requested." Playing the part to perfection. Not that there was anything innocent about her. Only Picard could have sensed the nervousness that she was working so hard to suppress—in the slight lift of her chin, her half-clenched hands, the way that her gaze just failed to meet his own. _Do you really fear me that much, Beverly?_

"So you finally favour me with your presence."

"Since you've finally granted me an audience…" The look that she gave him was half quizzical, half amused.

"Doctor, the captain of a starship has many demands on his time and attention." Getting to his feet, he began to move towards her, but slowly. "He can hardly be expected to attend to every detail himself."

"There are some things to which a captain has to give his personal attention," she replied. They were standing close now, so close that they were almost touching; but he held himself back, testing his own control. In his mind he could already touch her, running his hands through her soft hair, familiarising himself once again with her curves and contours, making her his own. In a strange duality of vision, he could see her even now as she had been in the heat of a West African evening. _Beverly._

And yet here they were now, both in their uniforms, surrounded by the sterility of a starship. She stood simply looking back at him, a slight smile curving her lips. Her eyes were just on a level with his own, and they half shone in the dim light, as if a suppressed pleasure glowed within her.

"You speak, of course, of the issue of the laboratory space," he said, finally.

"Of course," she echoed softly. And she reached up and removed the clip from her hair, shaking it out in a shower of auburn waves, falling down around her shoulders. Picard watched, utterly fascinated by her. After twelve years, twelve years, she had lost none of her beauty. If anything, she had simply grown into it, wearing it more easily now.

And so, without words, without negotiation, without any acknowledgement of the years that had passed, they kissed. The touch of her lips could have burned him. And it felt as if they had never been apart.

***

The half-assembled circuit was laid out on the table, eviscerated like a laboratory specimen, each part in its place, gleaming dully in the light. The piece under his magnifier glittered like gold, standing out in exaggerated scale like a walled city. Every terrace he knew; every convolution of the walls was part of his plan. Only a few more connections, golden threads making the roads to the outside world, and it would be complete. Wesley picked up a delicate manipulator and moved it slowly towards his city. Holding his breath.

The image wavered in his sight, as if it were a mirage, built on shifting sand and not on rock. _I know she's gone to see him. Where else would she go? And she's there right now._ The tip of his tool faltered, slipped out of its track. He sighed and prepared to try again. _If I fail this assignment, it's going to be her fault. Her fault, her fault, her fault. Like she cares…_

"What's wrong?" James, kneeling on the chair at the other side of the table, leaned forward as if he could discern some fault in all the microscopic circuitry.

"What does it look like? I just can't get this connection established."

Sometimes, looking through the magnifier, he could imagine it a real city into which he could fall if only he concentrated hard enough. Walking its golden streets. Now, though, it looked just what it was: a collection of nanoprocessors and filaments of wire, inexpertly assembled and blown up to hideous scale. It was not alive. It never would be.

"Do you want me to try?"

"I don't want you to touch it," said Wesley, exasperated. "It's not yours."

Hope sprung eternal for James; Wesley had never once allowed him to help with any project, but still he watched their progress with interest, and in spite of every discouragement, continued to offer his assistance.

"I will if you want," he replied steadfastly. "That's all."

"Aren't you tired of watching me yet, James? You're shaking the table."

James put his elbows on the table and propped his chin on his hands dejectedly. "I haven't got anything else to do," he said with a mournful air, as if Wesley would care.

"I don't want to be here either, you know. Commander Riker was going to show me the holodeck, but mom wouldn't let me go. So instead I'm stuck here keeping an eye on you." He pushed off from the table in frustration; the chair rolled only an unsatisfying few inches in the heavy carpet. "All so that she could go and see him…"

"See him? See who?" The tilt of James' head, the way he pursed his lips—it reminded Wesley so strongly of his mother that he had to look down. He had not meant to say it; he could not now take it back. He kicked the table leg instead.

"Captain Picard." He kicked it again for good measure.

"She's doing research with Captain Picard?" asked James, puzzled.

"James, can you really be as stupid as you sound?" He paused. "She's sleeping with him."

"I don't believe you…" James replied hesitantly.

"I'll prove it to you." _And if I'm wrong, I won't mind at all._ "Computer, what is the location of Doctor Crusher?"

The reply came prompt and obedient, just as he had known it would be. "Doctor Crusher is in Captain Picard's quarters."

James just looked at him, wide-eyed.

"Didn't you know, James? Didn't you have any idea? He used to come and stay with us all the time back when I was little, after dad died."

He had been very small then, but still he could see the scene vividly. James was still a baby then, crawling around on the floor. Captain Picard sat on the sofa, next to his mother, too close—his arm was around her shoulder. As he talked to her, he was winding a strand of her red hair slowly around his finger. And she sat there, looking at her hands in her lap, and listened, and didn't do anything. Wesley had wanted to go to her, to climb into her lap, but he had been too afraid, without even knowing why. Even then it had seemed wrong. It seemed more wrong now.

"I don't like him," continued Wesley. "Not at all." He could remember shouting, the arguments they'd had when they thought that he wasn't listening… _You'll always be mine, Beverly, don't forget it… Oh yes, once you had Jack out of the way…_ His mother crying. She had tried afterwards to pretend that she was all right, that nothing had happened. She always did. "He hurt mom, I know it. She was afraid of him."

"I'm afraid of him," said James. His voice was scarcely above a whisper, as if he feared that he could somehow be overheard.

"You should be." Wesley paused. He was on the edge of the precipice now, and he should stop, but he could not. James deserved to know. And there was no one else to tell. He swallowed, his throat gone dry. "James, I think that Captain Picard killed dad."

"But—but dad died for Starfleet," James replied in bewilderment. "On Quetta. He was protecting the colony. There was a landslide and—That's what mom said…"

"Do you think that mom would tell you the truth?"

"Yes," said James, in a voice miserably small.

"Listen. Dad was under Captain Picard's command on the Stargazer, and Captain Picard was there on the planet. He brought dad's body home to us, so that he could tell mom the news. That's what he wanted—dad out of the way, so that he could have her. He did it. And I would kill him if I could."

"Wes, he would kill you first."

"I know."

"And he made mom go and see him." The quiet horror in James's voice was clear: the dawning realisation that life was not as he had thought it. It took Wesley a moment to understand that James was referring to this very evening.

"She wanted to," he replied darkly.

***

Picard leaned back and sighed. "How Starfleet can consider its captains' time well spent ferrying diplomats around the cosmos, I'm unable to imagine."

"Mmm," replied Beverly, nestling closer to his side.

"A fitting first mission indeed."

"Jean-Luc," she said sleepily, "I, for one, am glad that we're not heading into a war zone."

"A war zone at least would present a challenge. Surely there are more productive things to be doing tomorrow than attending a three-hour long formal dinner, kowtowing to Starfleet dignitaries whom…"

"Whom I know that you loathe," she finished for him.

"Small talk," he went on, maintaining a tone of bad-tempered detachment while still continuing, god bless him, to idly stroke her bare skin. Beverly closed her eyes again, luxuriating in the touch. "Feigning an interest in the affairs of the Admiralty, staying up to date with the latest political manoeuvrings, always with one ear to the ground, pleasing those in power… It's beneath the dignity of a captain to concern himself with such things on board his own starship. Not to mention the fact that one is expected to find a woman to appear on one's arm for the occasion," he added with disdain. "Rented, if not bought…"

"I'm sure you'll manage," said Beverly, as neutrally as she could.

As if Jean-Luc would ever appear at one of these dinners with a woman who meant anything to him. As if such a creature existed. She remembered Jack saying jokingly to her once that he had never seen Jean-Luc with the same woman twice. To which she had replied that she didn't want to know where he found them all, and what her husband had to do with it. But that had all been… before…

"As for tomorrow night," he said, somewhat speculatively, "I suppose you would be the obvious choice."

"Oh." She could not keep the note of surprise out of her voice. She glanced up at him, wanting to meet his gaze, and found him apparently absorbed in contemplating the curve of her left breast. Absorbing, yes—but not that absorbing. "Jean-Luc," she pursued, her eyes still fixed on him, "are you asking me to be your date at the admirals' dinner?"

"If you want to call it that."

"What would you call it?"

"Some might say you were my consort."

_Ah, but would you say so?_ She knew him too well to ask the question.

In those words it sounded so simple. What she had begged him for after Jack's death. What he now granted her as if it were a gift hardly worth mentioning. This dance of theirs. Beverly dropped her eyes from his face, squeezing them tightly shut, as if she could will the tears not to flow.

_Twelve years we've slept together, and not once, not once has he touched me in public, or in front of anyone but Wesley and James. And now he expects me to take what he offers me without a word, without question? The scraps from his table… But the captain's table…_

"If I were to collect you from your quarters, say, at 19.30 tomorrow…?" His touch had grown less abstracted, more personal—gently smoothing her hair back from her temples. Beverly leaned into his touch—and realised that she had as yet given him no answer, that he was waiting for her to say the words.

"I wouldn't say no," she replied, finally.

"I didn't think you would." But he, the great starship captain, had not been so sure. The depth of the look in his hazel eyes surprised her. There was something in it that she had not seen before, and she felt laid bare before it.

"Speaking of dinner, Jean-Luc," she said, looking away, "I think I'm a bit hungry."

"Do you never stop eating, Beverly?" he grumbled mildly, shifting to prop himself up on one elbow, seemingly just as relieved as her to find that the intensity of the moment had been broken.

"I didn't have anything for supper. I came straight here from sickbay." And it was almost the truth. She could feel her stomach rumbling. _Something simple… roast chicken perhaps? Or moules marineres? Jean-Luc likes that…_

"Very well then," he said, and swung himself up to his feet in one easy motion, leaving Beverly half-uncovered, curled in the hollow that he had left. For a moment, she shivered.

***

Their meal was a midnight feast, big bowls of steaming mussels simmered in white wine and garlic, with chunks of bread to dip in the broth. Picard sat opposite Beverly at the table, and watched her. She had complained of the chill, wrapped as she was only in a light dressing gown—his own. To see her wearing it was a thing oddly intimate: for all her delicacy, she was not that much smaller than him, and it fitted her well. But her shape was very different…

Now she did not seem cold at all, leaning over her bowl and inhaling the aromatic steam. The mussels must surely be scalding her mouth, but still she was eating with great relish. The meal, and the wine—and the lovemaking before—had put a flush in her cheeks, beautifully plain.

"Mmm," she said, mouth full. "This is lovely, Jean-Luc. Not quite Paris, but very nice…"

"Very nice," he echoed, without much thought. That promised trip to Paris—and to his family home—did she still remember that? It must have been six years ago now, more. It had not seemed right then; not at the time. Now? Well, he would see. There was no call to be hasty.

"I think I'll open another bottle," he said instead and rose from the table. He had treated her to the Picard vintage, not replicated alcohol; the occasion had seemed worthwhile.

"You're not trying to get me drunk, are you?" she replied flirtatiously, looking up at him from under those long lashes.

"Given what you'll do while sober, I should say not." Her eyes widened only briefly; then she looked away and busied herself with the bread. "I simply thought that we should try another vintage."

"If you want," she said, indifferently. Beverly was as indiscriminate in her choice of wines as she was… well, perhaps that wasn't quite fair. Except…

"Keel will be there."

His statement was punctuated by the quiet pop as he slipped the cork out of the bottle. In the silent room it sounded loud.

"At the dinner? Walker?" Beverly had been searching out the last scraps from the depths of her bowl; now she stopped and stared at him.

"One and the same. He's been made a leading member of the delegation; Starfleet think very highly of his diplomatic skills, apparently." Refilling her glass to the brim, he examined Beverly's face carefully. Although her surprise had appeared genuine, he did not like to underestimate her—not inconsiderable—acting skills. "I thought you might have known."

"Jean-Luc," she replied, with a touch of annoyance, "you know that I don't hear this sort of thing. I never have. And your first officer hardly seemed willing to share any details of our mission with me…"

"From Walker personally, that is," he added, his eyes close on her own.

"I've hardly seen him since—since Jack died." Her voice went quiet abruptly as she realised the import of the question. Beverly could sometimes be shockingly imperceptive. "Certainly not to talk…"

"You know very well that talking is not what I'm concerned about." He took her upper arm in his hand. "And I know that you've slept with Walker before."

"Before, yes. Of course I have. But that was over fifteen years ago, before I had ever met you or Jack. It was only a week…" His grip had tightened on her arm, without his even having been aware of it. "Jean-Luc, you're hurting me! Why are you doing this? Why now?"

"I've always wondered why he introduced you to Jack…" he said in an undertone, releasing her from his grasp, letting his hand fall away from the fabric of the dressing gown.

"I'm not going to discuss Jack with you," she replied bravely. But there were tears gathering in her eyes. She would not resist him; she could not command herself for long.

"Admit it, Beverly. You wanted me from the start. You could hardly keep your eyes off me. Would it pain you so much to be made to admit it?"

In her eyes now was not desire but fear, grief, memory—and, buried not so deep, that self-loathing that she had always had in her, before he or even Jack had ever met her. He had not marred her. She had marred herself.

"I'll admit it if you like," she said, finally, the anger in her voice riding along with the pain. "Because I know you can't. Of course I wanted you then. I want you now. I wouldn't have come here tonight if I didn't. Is that what you want from me? Is that better?"

She was very near to tears now, trembling on the brink.

"Much better," he pronounced.

***

It was past 3am when she finally stumbled back to her own quarters. She felt slightly sick to her stomach, but whether it was the mussels or the wine, she was not certain. A perfunctory look around the darkened rooms was enough to reassure her that no destruction had been wreaked. The boys had gone to bed. All was quiet. Without thinking further, she fell into bed, head spinning, and passed into a dreamless sleep.

She woke in the morning with a splitting headache and the certain knowledge that there was someone else in her bed. For a moment, she thought that she had stayed with Jean-Luc after all. Or had he returned with her? Impossible. But still, before opening her eyes, she held her breath.

It was James—curled up at the foot of the bed like a faithful puppy, sleeping the sleep of the innocent and untroubled. Beverly closed her eyes again. _I thought he'd stopped doing this. He's nearly ten, for goodness sake…_

"James," she said wearily, her voice not much above a whisper, "what are you doing in my bed…?"

His eyes lit up as soon as they flickered open. "Mom! You came back!"

Beverly winced at the volume. "Of course I came back, James. Where did you think I was going? And why are you in my bed?"

"I had a nightmare, I couldn't sleep. So I came in here." He looked appealingly plaintive, his sandy hair all tousled from the pillow, and those blue eyes, just like Jack's… She had never been able to stay angry with Jack for long, even when it would have been better if she had.

"And here you are. What did Wesley tell you this time?"

But James pursed his lips and shook his head. "Nothing," he declared, entirely unconvincingly.

When Wesley was little he had given himself nightmares entirely on his own initiative—but then he had always been more imaginative than James. Now he seemed to take a perverse pleasure in frightening his younger brother, offering him a selection of hand-me-down terrors.

"Was it really that scary?" she asked patiently.

But now he said nothing at all, just looked at her solemnly.

Beverly sighed and let her head fall back onto the pillow. She would have it out of Wesley eventually.

***


	3. Chapter 3

***

 

The room was thronged already—filled to capacity with officers in dress uniforms, Starfleet dignitaries in their heavy gaudy robes, and women in dresses of every description… swirling, clinging, plunging. It was as if he could smell the perfume in the air over the scent of the slowly-cooking dinner. Nothing but the best for the crew of the Enterprise—in either category.

Riker had begun by making his way to claim a glass of wine, and a selection of appetizers from the profusion laid on display: smoked salmon and cream cheese tartlets, prosciutto and melon, fois gras, caviar… Not quite as hearty as he would have liked, but given the captain's tastes, he had made the best of the menu.

He washed the last of his caviar down with a swallow of red wine, and leaned forward to catch the eye of the young woman who stood beside him, watching the proceedings with wonder.

"I'll bet this is your first diplomatic function," he said, offering her an inviting smile.

"Yes, sir," she replied, in a soft voice. Tasha Yar, unlike most of the women present, wore her hair loose, rippling down to her waist in blonde waves. The effect was to make her, the security officer of the Enterprise, look barely more than a schoolgirl. The effect of her dress was otherwise. It was sheer, gauzy, diaphanous, in shades of blue and green with splashes of red, and it wound round her body in close spirals, leaving her midriff bare. Through the sheer layers, he could glimpse her hipbone, and the tantalizing shape of a breast. _I wonder how long it would take me to unwrap her…?_

"I'm sure," he continued, "that it won't be your last."

Her own smile in return was shy, but with a natural warmth that Riker found refreshing. There was a moment when her light blue eyes met his—and then she modestly lowered her gaze. "I hope that it won't be, sir."

"Since we're not at our posts, Tasha," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder and drawing her a little closer, "why don't you call me Will?"

"I'm not sure if it's appropriate…"

He grinned broadly. "Take it from me. I won't mind."

As Riker chatted easily with his evening's first conquest, he kept one eye out for the arrival of the captain. Jean-Luc Picard, he was sure, was not the sort of man to take pleasure in mingling at a party; he had been out of temper at the very prospect of this dinner, refusing to concern himself with any of the detailed planning that had gone into it. Punctilious with regard to the behaviour of his subordinates, he would naturally bend the rules when it came to himself. Riker fully expected him to arrive just before the start of the dinner, as late as was possible without giving offence to his guests. For, if Riker was any judge of character—and he fancied himself quite a good one—then his new captain had no real desire or ability to enjoy life, to appreciate good food, good wine, or indeed, good company. A man so strict, so closeted…

Now there was a thought. Was Picard, perhaps, an admirer of young men rather than young women? It would, if it were true explain quite a bit. Certainly the captain had no family, and it seemed as though, remarkable as the idea was, he had no consort or lover on board the Enterprise. If he did, he had been exceptionally discreet about it, for no good reason. What was the point of a captaincy after all, if one could not exercise the privileges of rank? The perquisites of being first officer were in themselves enough to tax even Riker's stamina.

"Good evening, Commander; Lieutenant Yar."

He had been about to turn back to Tasha, perhaps to advance the conversation to more personal subjects—but there was Sufi Cohen deftly interposing herself, champagne glass in hand.

"Evening, Sufiyyah." He was prepared to be cordial, regardless of first impressions and regardless of what people said about political officers. Any enemy of Captain Picard's was a friend of his, at least theoretically. And he did not envy her the position, however powerful it might appear on paper.

"Commander Riker was just talking to me about diplomatic receptions…" said Tasha.

"Dull, aren't they?" replied Cohen forthrightly, looking up at him—a long way up. She was an interesting character, very sharp, her gaze just a little too perceptive. Not Riker's type at all. Her olive green dress was plain, paired with tights of a similar colour. Both opaque, entirely unexciting.

"I wouldn't necessarily say that," he began. "For one thing…"

The hush spreading across the room caught his attention instantly, the harsh buzz of conversation changing into low, meaning murmurs. People's faces were turning towards the doors.

"Will you look at that…" breathed Cohen.

Riker followed her gaze, looking over the heads of others who were craning their necks for a view. The reason for her surprise was clear: Captain Picard had finally made his entrance, and made it in style… with Beverly Crusher on his arm.

Despite no longer being in her first youth, Beverly looked—he had to admit—absolutely stunning. And from the way that she stood, he was sure that she was only too aware of the fact. The dress that she wore was as black as space, and clung in a way that accentuated all her curves—not that she was particularly well endowed, but she was clearly making the most of what she had. Presumably in very high heels, and with her auburn hair put up, she was a good two or three inches taller than the captain. Not that Picard looked in the least put out by this. A trophy for his collection indeed.

Riker quickly excused himself and pushed his way through the resisting crowds towards the door. As he went, he could hear the scattered scraps of conversation: "So is she…?" "I didn't think…" "Jack Crusher…"

_When did this happen_ he asked himself disbelievingly. _And who's won whom here?_ Either this was for show—which was possible—or for political advantage… or she was not as much of an ice queen as he had thought.

Reaching his captain's side, Riker made the obligatory salute. "Captain Picard… and Beverly," he added, offering a courtly half bow.

"Commander Riker," she replied, in a tone of barely tolerant formality. Her eyes were cool, but that voice of hers—breathy and girlish, suggestive despite herself—still surprised him. Especially when she appeared, as she did now, the very picture of composed elegance. That dress of hers was a marvel. High-collared, sleeveless, and close-fitting, it fell to her ankles, relieved only by a small keyhole opening which showed the soft inner curves of her breasts, and her shockingly white skin. But it was slit to the mid-thigh, on both sides. Riker looked again—both sides. One of her legs was almost entirely exposed to his view: bare, slim, magnificently long. Riker swallowed, and turned his attention back to Picard.

"Was there something you wished to discuss, Commander?" Picard asked, taking Beverly's arm proprietorially. "I trust that everything is in order for the dinner tonight?"

"Of course, sir. I've supervised all the preparations myself."

"I'll take that as an expression of confidence."

"I'd recommend the steak."

Picard ignored this small attempt at humour. "If you'll excuse me, Commander, I believe we're delaying the start of the meal."

And with only a nod at Riker he turned and withdrew, guiding Beverly along with him towards the table, his hand at the small of her back. Ever so slightly lower than the small of her back.

If that small gesture did not speak volumes, there was the final look that Beverly shot Riker as she followed her lover—infinitely self-satisfied. But on her arm, as pale as her skin was, he could see the mark of Picard's fingers where he had gripped it, far too tightly.

***

Jean-Luc Picard was just as he had always been—stern, aristocratic, inflexible—the passage of years having made no mark on him. He was of harder stuff than that, holding himself aloof even from the passage of time.

His handshake was dry, wary, just sufficient. As was his greeting.

"Captain Keel".

"Captain Picard," replied Walker Keel, a slight nod of his head his only outward acknowledgment of their old friendship. That, too, had left no mark on Jean-Luc. He wondered what would.

"The delegation represents Starfleet's best, I see," Picard was saying. "I hadn't thought that a diplomatic posting would tempt you to leave the Horatio."

"I wouldn't have thought so either, but the needs of the Empire take priority, after all."

Keel had in fact been transferred to his present posting very much against his will, but Starfleet had at least had the good grace to allow him to keep that fact confidential. He was not by temperament cut out for the life of a diplomat. Jean-Luc might well be, but it was the whim of fate and Imperial politics that left Keel a mouthpiece of the Empire, and Picard the commander of a Galaxy-class starship. Jack Crusher might have called it unjust; but then, he had been an idealistic young man, and his life—and death—the ultimate proof of injustice.

"How are you finding the Enterprise?" asked Keel—cocktail party conversation—taking a careful sip of champagne and shifting the glass to his other hand. "She seems to be a fine ship."

"I haven't yet been given the chance to test her abilities," replied Picard, with a touch of impatience. "But I expect to find her so. My crew is said to be an excellent one: Cohen I know from the Stargazer; my second-in-command, William Riker, comes very highly recommended from the Hood." Where he had served a five-year tour of duty without making any serious moves against her captain, yes. Reliable indeed. "My chief engineer, Robert Argyle, is out of Dystopia Planitia; and my chief medical officer…."

Was none other than Doctor Beverly Crusher. Keel had done a double take when scanning the assignments list for the new Enterprise, wondering what circumstances had landed her there. On enquiring, he heard that she had fought hard within Starfleet to get the position—but what part Picard had had in that, one way or the other, he was not sure. There had been whispers about the two of them, of course, but whispers only, and what the years had done with them since Jack's death he did not know—and wished he need not ever know. Once, he had thought better of Beverly than that.

Picard had let his voice trail off, and his eyes wandered for a moment, almost instantly lighting on her in the crowd of people. That unmistakable blazing red hair. But Picard's gaze also had in it an air of the proprietorial. "Beverly," he said, his voice imperative, pitched just above the noise of conversation. He had known just where she was, and had not allowed her to stray far.

Beverly drifted noiselessly to her captain's side. Time had touched her, too, only lightly, the brilliance of her face and form undimmed. She still was the woman that Jack Crusher had so loved, at least externally. Now, standing closely by Jean-Luc, she had the dignity at least to look ever so slightly abashed. Despite her dancer's poise, she had always seemed to Walker to be perpetually just a little off-balance, a little tentative. And thus she seemed now.

"Walker," she said softly, "it's been a long time."

"It's good to see you Beverly," he replied, only half having to feign the warmth. "How are you?"

"Very well, thank you." As always, he could not tell whether it was her eyes or her voice that gave her words the lie—or whether it was only in his mind.

"I'm glad to hear it," he said gravely.

She blinked once, as if he had said something else entirely, and then dropped her eyes.

"Jean-Luc," she said, speaking in an intimate undertone, "don't you think we ought to take our seats now?"

"Indeed, yes," responded Picard. And he took her hand. "Until later then, Captain."

***

Keel was not seated at the high table, where Jean-Luc and Beverly were surrounded by a galaxy of admirals, and captains more senior than himself. The fact did not bother him particularly—at least, only in the abstract. He was instead at the little high, with a scattering of captains and the Enterprise's own senior staff. There were few of them that he knew, except by name or reputation. Even so, as at all such Starfleet events, there were only a few minutes of polite conversation before the gossip began.

"What do you think is going on there?" asked Will Riker, mouth full of steak, gesturing with his chin towards the high table.

"She's his," replied Lieutenant Yar simply. "If she wasn't the captain's woman before, she is now."

"But was she before, that's what I want to know? If not, then he certainly works quickly…"

Keel said nothing, merely turned back to his own steak. He could still remember the sound of his own voice: _Before Jack died?_ But he was beyond disbelief now; it was something for younger men.

There was no mistaking the undercurrent between the two of them, as they sat together in plain view at the high table. Not that there was anything indiscreet about it—they were both too self-controlled for that. But it was undeniable that they were lovers. Surrounded by the cream of Starfleet—Admiral Nechayev, Admiral Wallace, Admiral Jellico—they seemed to have eyes only for one another. Well, perhaps that was not strictly true. Picard's gaze roved around the hall, perpetually vigilant, every once in a while settling on Keel and then flicking away again, as if he were unsatisfied with what he saw. But at a word from Beverly, his attention shifted completely back to her. He leaned in to listen to her, closer than was necessary, and every so often he would address to her a confidential remark, his mouth close to her ear, brushing against the strands of her auburn hair. He looked as though he would like to touch her—to lay a hand on hers, at least—but his unbreakable reserve held him back as if it were a forcefield.

And Beverly—as she laughed, and smiled, and talked, her eyes never strayed far from Picard. There was a look in them that she had once reserved for Jack alone, sultry and intense, the steadiness of her gaze so unlike her. She was clearly enthralled. Even though Jack was long buried, the sight made Keel uneasy.

The conversation had drifted on to other topics, leaving Keel to his own thoughts. It was only when dessert arrived—Baked Alaska, alight with a clear blue flame—that Riker returned to the theme of Beverly Crusher and her liaison.

"Well, if I were Picard, I would have her on my arm too. Women like that are the reason that the commander's privilege was invented."

"Really?" said Cohen curiously, leaning forward. For a political officer, her personality was close to the ideal—never allowing any statement to pass her by unexamined.

"She seems attractive enough to me," Riker responded, amused. "I wouldn't mind her dining at my table."

"If you say so…" Cohen was drawing delicate patterns in her melting ice cream with the tip of her spoon, apparently not finding the conversation absorbing enough. "I knew her husband, you know," she remarked finally, apropos of nothing.

"Did you?" asked Keel. The interest in his voice was more clear than he would have liked. He had drawn Cohen's attention, at least.

"Yes, sir," she replied, inferior to superior, ice cream forgotten. "I served on the Stargazer as Captain Picard's security officer. Commander Crusher was his number one."

"Of course." Picard had said as much earlier, hadn't he? _Careful, Walker, you're getting sloppy. _ "I… knew him as well."

"He was a good officer," she said. "And a good man."

The two of them were alone in their conversation; Riker had lost interest and was now talking with Yar, something about Admiral Nechayev.

"I wasn't able to get leave to go to his funeral," she added. "Not with the Stargazer as short of senior staff as it was."

"Jack would have understood." It was odd to say his name out loud—making real again a man who had faded into memory.

"I think he would."

They lapsed into silence. All the noise of the crowded room—the raised voices, the clink of cutlery—was distant in Keel's ears.

"Good men die young," he said finally.

It was true. And from the thoughtful expression on Cohen's face, he knew that she felt it to be so.

***

Being the captain's de facto consort, Beverly was expected to dance with the assorted Starfleet dignitaries present at the dinner. So dance she did, pleased at having the chance to move freely after hours sitting at the table. Yet, along with that pleasure, she felt a twinge of awkwardness that caught her by surprise. Having the eyes of a room upon her was nothing new, even if her performing days were past her now, but this was very different.

She was not ashamed but she knew very well why people were looking at her, and what they were thinking. Speculating on her prowess not on the dance floor, or in surgery, but in the bedroom. Of course everyone thought that she'd thrown herself at the captain as soon as she'd had the opportunity. Well, it had been twelve years, not two days, if that made any difference. She was not sure that it did.

_The captain's woman. This is what it means. This is what you wanted, Beverly._ Not that she regretted it. Not that they knew anything about it.

For the first dance of the evening she had found herself in Jean-Luc's arms—like the first dance of a marriage, oddly and slowly solemnized over the course of years. It was almost shocking in its closeness, publicly acknowledged, even in such a formal way as this. Despite his reluctance to take part in such a display, he was far from graceless, his movements fluid and sure. She would have liked to savour the moment—to lay her cheek against his, perhaps even to close her eyes—but it was not possible. This dance was as much a performance as any in which she had taken part. There was no part in it for the feelings of Beverly Crusher, once Howard, the private woman.

At the end of the dance he had relinquished her with reluctance, his hand lingering at the curve of her waist even as he passed her along to Admiral Wallace. That last glance that they shot one another had promised, surely, more to come.

The evening wore on, and her partners blended one into the other. In memory, Beverly could still feel the warmth and strength of Jean-Luc's body pressed against her own, as vividly as if she had never felt such a thing before. _He'll invite me back to his quarters when this is all over; he has to. _

Eventually she managed to escape Admiral Jellico's clutches and go in search of a glass of punch and a few moments of silence. And, if truth be told, a chance to catch her breath away from the curious stares. She felt more than a bit warm. _You're out of training, Beverly._ Either that or the wine at dinner had gone to her head—perhaps more likely, or at least, more flattering to her vanity.

It had been optimistic of her to think that she would be left in peace even for a little while. Through the potted plant that was half screening her from the room, she could see Will Riker—who else?—unmistakably drifting in her direction, as if he had sighted his quarry but was unwilling to telegraph the fact to anyone else. Beverly steeled herself.

"You and the captain?" he asked, taking a place beside her, leaning casually against the wall. And just coincidentally blocking her view of the rest of the room.

"Yes," she answered tersely. _I always forget how tall he is… And where is Jean-Luc when you need him?_

"You don't waste time, do you?" The amusement was plain in his voice.

"He knows what he wants."

"I can see that." And Riker's look made it abundantly clear what he wanted.

"Listen to me, Commander," said Beverly, in a carefully controlled undertone. "Let me give you some advice. Jean-Luc Picard is a very jealous man, and he believes in exclusive possession. You can ask him yourself—but I wouldn't recommend it. And if you value your position—or your potency—then you won't look at me like that again."

"I never meant to…" He sounded nonplussed, stung—almost hurt.

"And stay away from my boys."

Heads turned as she stalked away.

***

"Keel," said Picard wearily, throwing himself down onto the bed. A four letter word; no other curse was necessary. "Edward Jellico," he continued, in a similar tone, "and that bitch Nechayev. I had to dance with her twice, as if once weren't penance enough…"

Beverly took a seat more carefully on the edge of the bed, looked back at him curiously as he stretched out, still in his stiff dress uniform. Perhaps he looked ridiculous; he didn't care.

"At least you didn't have to dance with Jellico," she offered. He looked up to study her, sitting there silhouetted against the starry window in the half-light. She was half turned towards him, her eyes on him expectantly, balancing herself with one hand laid gracefully on the bed by his hip. Her back described an elegant curve, betraying her dancer's training.

"You made it look graceful."

It was an understatement. He had never seen a woman to compare with Beverly—not since he had first seen her dance, at a very drunken party thrown by Walker Keel.

_Keel,_ he thought again, pointlessly.

"I didn't enjoy it quite as much as I thought I would," she said thoughtfully. "The attention, and the pageantry… it was all a bit much."

"A diplomatic dinner?" he replied, annoyed that she had wilfully ignored what he had clearly intended as a compliment. "Why would you expect to enjoy it? Attention is dangerous, Beverly. Not enjoyable."

There were these flashes, even still, of the naïve young woman that she had once been. He wondered, briefly, whether she had ever attended a diplomatic dinner before—if she had, it would have been only in the most junior of capacities, and years earlier. Since Jack's death, she had moved in very different circles. How odd to think. In her capacity of CMO of the Enterprise, he had begun to consider her almost as an equal to him. But then, there was a reason why she had been appointed CMO in the first place—and now, after this evening, everyone on board knew it. No wonder, then, that Beverly was uneasy.

"This is the life of a Starfleet captain, Beverly," he said impatiently, as if instructing a child. "And of his consort, I'm afraid. Constant vigilance is only the first price. In years to come, you'll consider yourself lucky to have escaped so easily for so long."

"Easily?" she echoed, incredulous. "Ten years alone, not being able to say a word to anyone, never knowing if I would see you again… I'd like to see what you call difficult!"

"You will, I have no doubt."

She fell silent, looked at him; it was something in his tone.

"Not that there aren't compensations, of course," he said, more gently. "Come here, Beverly."

***

In the morning, there she was still. They had slept undisturbed—either of them—by ship's business, and now they were having breakfast. Together. Beverly could not help marvelling at it all, at where she found herself—with the captain of the ISS Enterprise in his personal quarters, entirely without ceremony, almost without fear.

Their breakfast had been simple, nothing but tea and croissants. Not at all the sort of meal that Jack had favoured when he was alive; then, she had eaten eggs, and bacon, and French toast for breakfast, because Jack had liked it. Now, she ate croissants, spreading a little lemon curd on each mouthful, because Jean-Luc liked it. But she liked it too. Which was, after all, the important thing.

Beverly sighed and leaned back on the couch. She had had her morning's two croissants, and was full, satisfied enough. A third would be unwise, excessive, too much of a concession to happiness—if happiness this was. Whatever it was, she held it now within her grasp.

"Shall I brew another pot of tea?" asked Picard, with an almost solicitous precision. He was already on the edge of the couch, ready to stand.

"I probably should be going now…" she said, leaving the suggestion to trail in the air. She did not want to overstay her welcome by one minute. Better by far to leave him wanting more. "I do have my work to get back to."

He got to his feet anyway, with a decisiveness that suggested the question had been only a formality. And he looked down at her.

"There are a few matters of ship's business for us to discuss first."

"Oh," she said. "Of course, captain."

She had earlier allowed herself to wonder whether they might make love again—she would not have said no had he asked, but it was clear now that he would not. Now, abruptly, she felt exposed, aware of being more to him than his lover. Aware, uncomfortably so, that the light dressing gown which she wore had half fallen open, coming loose around her. She pulled it fully closed again, cinched the belt tightly around her waist. And he turned away, going to put the pot of tea back in the replicator.

She watched him go, her eyes on his back as he stood waiting for the teapot to materialise. Now, awake and out of bed, she was acutely conscious of her presence in his life, and her delicate position in this, his inner sanctum. Before, when the boys were still young, he had always come to her; thereafter, they had met only in neutral locations, the undemarcated ground of hotels or starbases. Only in the very early days of their relationship had she, during furtive afternoons and hours guiltily borrowed from her lab work, ever visited his San Francisco apartment. But he had been almost as much a stranger there as she, living in transient officers' housing unembellished by any personal effects. Then, she had thought it simply the nature of the man.

This, though, was different; his home, if such a thing existed, was here amidst the void of interstellar space. Everywhere, she was surrounded by evidence of him—paintings of starscapes; shelves and shelves of leatherbound books; alien artifacts in pottery, wood, and stone, of which she could recognize only the antiquity. Jean-Luc led an austere life, but here, where very few would ever see, were his few indulgences. They were scrupulously, meticulously arranged, and almost oppressive in their order. She felt ill at ease amongst all his collections, out of place, an awkward creature of flesh and blood sitting as lightly as she could on his couch. Wearing his dressing gown. Not that he seemed particularly to mind.

"First," he said, pouring himself another cup of tea, "there's the matter of your laboratory space. I've instructed Commander Riker to hold vacant one of the mission support suites on Deck Fourteen for your use. There will be no official status for your projects—I have no intention of reporting the details of my shipboard arrangements to Starfleet Command—but the space will be yours to control. I assume that it will be sufficient for your purposes."

"Yes, sir; it will." It seemed ages ago that she had made that request. What had that to do with this? Everything, nothing. She picked up her cup of tea, and sipped at it—only lukewarm dregs were left. She put it down again.

"Further, I'll expect to receive weekly reports on your progress. Made to me personally, and shared with no one else."

"Of course." She allowed herself a small, conspiratorial smile at that. "Thank you, Jean-Luc."

And he responded in kind, a slight smile crossing his own lips, as he poured her more tea. "When have I ever been able to deny you anything you wanted?"

There was only one thing that he had denied her forever. But her anger could not bring Jack back any more than her love had saved him. She ignored the thought, the memories that came like a brush across her skin. And she smiled gratefully at her lover.

"The other issue is also to do with allocation of space," he went on, looking down at the Padd by his hand, tapping out a command. "I want you to move into adjoining quarters."

"Adjoining quarters?" she echoed, alarmed. "Adjoining… your quarters? But, Jean-Luc, I've just settled in… all my things…" And this is all so sudden, she thought, mockingly, half despairing. She had never, never thought that he would go so far. He would want to keep his independence, and she…

_But what did you expect? This is what you wanted, Beverly._

"This is not negotiable," he said sharply. "It's necessary."

"Necessary? Because I'm the captain's woman now? It's never been necessary before. Do you really trust me that little?"

"It has nothing to do with trust, Beverly."

He said it as if the word were entirely irrelevant to him, a component of some system to which he did not subscribe. But surely he owed her an acknowledgement of its existence, at least. She had spent years at a time left behind on Earth, without seeing him, faithful despite it all to their tenuous liaison—and to the fear of what would happen if she had not been. There had been, of course, a few brief encounters along the way, but they had been discreet to the point of paranoia, almost anonymous, only satisfying—and that barely—her physical needs. _As if I could get up to anything here on the Enteprise, with everyone's eyes on me. As if I would ever dare. As if I would want to…_

"You want to keep your eyes on me, Jean-Luc."

"I want to protect you," he replied, his tone urgent. He was in earnest, very much so; if this was a matter of sentiment, he was doing a very good job of disguising it. "You're mine now, and my enemies will strike at any point of weakness that they can find. I don't want my security officers stretched too thin; I want to keep you close. It's simply a matter of practicality."

Whatever he wanted to call it, whatever reason he gave, they would be living together in all but name. Or living side by side, at least. Beverly considered the idea—not an entirely unpleasant one. There would be nights together, the luxury of sleeping in the arms of a man again after all these years, as she had last night. And mornings, mornings… But then…

"What about the boys?" she asked softly.

"What about them?"

"Well… I don't know that you'll want them living next door to you…"

"They can stay where they are now." A starship captain in every instinct, used to disposing of difficulties with one terse pronouncement.

"I hardly think that's realistic."

"They're old enough, aren't they? They can look after themselves, surely. You won't be more than a few decks away."

"Wesley is still only fifteen," she said incredulously. "James hasn't even turned ten yet. I can't leave them unsupervised like that. Not permanently…" Even a whole night away from them was an indulgence—they would be awake by now, she knew, and wondering where she was. But she had put that out of her mind. "You can't expect a fifteen-year-old boy to look after his younger brother like that. And even if it were just Wesley, I wouldn't want…"

"Beverly, I gave you permission to bring them on board—against my better judgment, I must say. I've been far more understanding than you should have expected, and certainly more than they deserved. You would do well to remember that you were assigned here at my direct request." _And are here at my pleasure,_ added Beverly mentally. He did not have to say it. "You should have sent them both off to boarding school long ago if you really cared—as you claim to do—about your career."

"Boarding school? At nine?"

"I was sent away at seven," he said dismissively. "It did me no harm."

Beverly tried to think of Jean-Luc at seven, sent off to school, but she could not imagine him ever having been that young, that helpless. She could not imagine that he would ever understand.

"In all this time, ten years—fifteen years—" she corrected herself, "you've never shown the slightest interest in either of them. If you had, then maybe I would be more inclined to take your advice on parenting now!"

His look was sharp. "You spoil them, Beverly, to a ridiculous extent. I've told you that before."

"Oh, do I?" She folded her arms across her chest.

"The way you used to let James climb into bed with you, for instance…"

There was that. Beverly said nothing, although aware that through her silence she was implicitly conceding the point. Her son's nighttime fears were no one's concern but her own.

"One need only see what you've made of Wesley," he continued scornfully. "An obedient, docile, timid child, lacking any of the spirit of a normal boy his age, entirely content to stay at his mother's side. It takes some roughness to make a man, Beverly. How do you expect him to learn to defend himself, or to get by in the world? I doubt very much that he ever will. And to think that he's Jack's son."

"You don't know the first thing about Wesley!" said Beverly fiercely.

"But I do know you, Beverly, and I know exactly what sort of mother you are. You're indulgent, over-protective, and you smother the boy. For one thing, Riker tells me that he offered to show Wesley the holodeck last week, and that you forbade it."

"Is that really such a surprise? Jean-Luc, I don't trust Will Riker further than I could throw him—and neither do you. Do you know the sort of things that they do in those programs?"

He could not accuse her of being ignorant of the subject, at least. In the now-distant past, she and Jack had visited holosuites together a few times—just for the experience. And even Beverly, who considered herself both broad-minded and medically informed as to the perversities of human nature, had at the mature age of twenty-four found herself, a married woman, mildly shocked. As for Wesley…

"It's the sort of thing that he'll have to learn sooner or later, Beverly," he said impatiently. "He'll have to become a man eventually, whether you like it or not."

"On a holodeck?"

"Besides which," he continued, ignoring her completely, "I'd imagine there's nothing in those programs that you and I haven't indulged in from time to time…"

And the idea obviously caught his fancy. He reached out to lay a hand caressingly on her hip.

"Which is exactly what I'm worried about!" Beverly pulled away from his touch with a shudder and got to her feet, beginning to pace. "He's my son," she said, hardly even listening to what she was saying. "You are not his father. And I'll raise him just as I see fit. I'm not negotiating about that; it's none of your business!"

"We'll see about that." And the worst of it was that she could see the faint amusement in his eyes, knew that he was really just toying with her, hardly bothering to hide it or to really exercise his power.

"You just try," she said coldly.

***


	4. Chapter 4

***

At 18.00 Ten Forward was thronged, filled with officers congregating after the shift change. Always a place that stood in some way outside the usual rules of shipboard conduct, it was particularly raucous that evening—the atmosphere almost supercharged, lust and ambition mingling in equal measure. It had been reserved for diplomatic functions on the previous three nights, and all across the room people were making up for lost time. The tang of tension floated in the air. It was an intoxicating place.

And it was no place for a fifteen-year-old boy. No place that anyone expected to see him, at least. For that very reason no one challenged Wesley as he pushed his way in past the crowd at the bar. It was as if he were invisible, as if his existence itself had been suspended by the simple fact that he was somebody else's problem. Adults could be so blind to what they did not want to see, remaking the world just as it suited them.

_Mom will kill me if she finds out I was here._

He could feel his heart hammering in counterpoint to the wild music, every moment expecting to hear some angry voice calling his name. But no voice came. There was nothing to fear. No one cared in the least about him or what he did. Captain Picard would not show himself here, appearing among his crew as if he were an equal. Wesley's mother would not either—even if she had not been buried deep in her laboratory work at this time of the evening, she would hardly visit such a place. Probably she thought that she was better than that.

As for his own whereabouts, there would be no questions asked. She hardly noticed where he was anymore—never at home, too preoccupied with her own affairs to concern herself with his.

_Maybe she trusts me._ But that was neither here nor there. She would never know. _And I'm plenty old enough to be in Ten Forward anyway._

Even so Wesley still felt a surge of relief when he spotted his quarry: Commander Riker, coming through the double doors with a woman on his arm. The buzz of voices didn't abate for a moment, but there was no way that anyone in the room could have failed to notice him. He stopped for a moment, scanning Ten Forward as if it were his own personal domain, and then he led the woman over towards a table by the windows. Wesley watched, entranced, and followed them.

"Hello, Commander," he said, presenting himself at their table. Even with as much assurance as he could muster, his voice still sounded high and childish in his ears.

"Why, hello Wes," replied Riker, stealing an amused glance at his dark-haired companion. "What brings you here? Dee, this is Wesley Crusher, Doctor Crusher's son."

"I see," she replied languidly, the vowels sounding exotic in her mouth. She was a beauty: tumbling raven hair, ivory skin… and gorgeous breasts, framed by the low-cut neck of her uniform. Commander Riker certainly knew how to pick women. Needless to say, her black eyes held not the slightest touch of interest in Wesley. They would not until he, too, wore three pips at his collar. Someday…

"So, Wes," Riker prompted, "what can I do for you?"

"Well, I just wanted to see Ten Forward. I was looking around, and… and I thought I would say hello…" Convincing? Not at all. _Really smooth, Wes._ He took another breath. "And I wondered if you still could show me the holodeck sometime?"

Another glance at Dee. "Last time I heard, your mother wasn't too happy about the idea."

"She won't mind." Wesley kept his eyes fixed firmly and sincerely on Riker, rather than letting them drift back to the woman. Not that it did any good.

"That's not what she told me."

"But you don't care what my mother thinks, do you?" he pursued boldly.

Riker laughed. "Captain Picard cares what your mother thinks, unfortunately." And he leaned forward, adopting a more confidential, man-to-man tone. "Look, Wes, I'd like to take you. And I'd still do it, if I could. But I can't now, not while your mother is this friendly with Picard. Antagonizing the captain's woman isn't exactly at the top of any first officer's to-do list."

"Oh. I see."

"Shipboard politics, you know," he added, and shrugged.

"Yes," said Wesley, his voice blank of any reproach or sympathy. "I understand. Well, thank you anyway, sir. I'm sorry to have bothered you…"

"Not a problem."

As he walked slowly away, he could hear Dee's voice: "a nice boy…" And Riker's laughing reply: "too nice. I would have…"

Wesley closed his ears to their voices. It was useless. Riker was afraid of Captain Picard, no better than James. Everyone on board was. Everyone. If even Commander Riker didn't have the courage to stand up to him… then Wesley was alone aboard the Enterprise. Just like his father had been; abandoned by everyone whom he should have been able to trust.

_But I won't give up. I won't forget him, I won't._ Someday he would have his revenge. Somehow. And he would…

"Wesley! What do you think you're doing here?"

The voice was sharp, accusing… but not actually hostile. Wesley blinked and looked up. Standing just ahead of him was Sufiyyah Cohen, blocking his way. She was tiny, her eyes barely level with his own. But even so, standing there in her Security tunic, arms folded sceptically, she was every inch the political officer. Other people might have let his presence go unnoticed. Not her. A political officer is always on duty. Just his luck.

"I was just looking around," he said. He hadn't the patience to come up with a more elaborate excuse. He couldn't bring himself to care.

"All very well, but this isn't the place for children. Especially not with a Starfleet delegation on board. What would you have done if I'd been Admiral Nechayev or Captain Keel?"

"I'm leaving now anyway," he replied sullenly.

She jerked her chin towards the door. "On with you, then."

And so he left, in disgust and in disgrace both. But an idea had occurred to him…

***

Walker hardly expected to anyone to come to his door. For a brief, utterly insane moment, he wondered whether it might be Beverly—but that was ridiculous. And certainly he could not have predicted the young boy who stood there dressed in a knitted orange jumper, his hands clasped formally behind his back. _What the hell? Is Picard allowing children aboard…?_

"Can I do something for you?" he asked, not without a touch of impatience.

"Captain Keel?"

"That's me."

The boy swallowed nervously, the movement of his Adam's apple plain. "Wesley Crusher, sir. You were a friend of my father."

"I was," Keel acknowledged.

And knowing that, it was as plain as day. Wesley was his father in miniature—the dark hair, slicked back but still unruly; the shape of his mouth and of his nose; the very set of his face. That exact look of determination that Jack had worn when faced with a seemingly intractable problem. Yet he had his mother in him too—large eyes, delicate build, even the nervous flutter of his hands. Both of Keel's friends were present there, in a boy not… well, he must be twelve at least. Keel had not seen him since he was just a little mite, his mother's constant shadow. He had been very young when Jack died…

"I wondered if I could talk to you, sir."

"Of course," said Keel, shaking himself out of his reverie. It would not do to stand out in the hallway talking to the boy, however much he looked like Jack Crusher. "Why don't you come in?"

Wesley followed him in obediently and took a seat on the small couch. He looked at Keel expectantly.

"Can I get you something? A glass of water, or juice…?"

"No thank you, sir," replied Wesley, with a surprising degree of composure. He swallowed again. "I came to you because you knew my father."

"He was one of my best friends."

"And Captain Picard," the boy pursued.

"Yes, that right," Keel replied, more cautiously.

"And my mother."

"Yes," he said, and paused. "If you have questions about your father, it might be better for you to ask her."

"I can't ask her. Not these questions."

Keel was silent.

"I remember… things," continued Wesley hesitantly, "things that they don't know I remember. My mother and Captain Picard, I mean. I just want to know whether I'm right."

"What's in the past, Wesley—sometimes it's best to leave it there."

"You're the only one who can tell me, sir."

That entreating look was Jack's, and Beverly's… Beverly as she had been. Walker had introduced Jack to Wesley's mother, and he didn't even know whether he regretted it. But how could Wesley do so—the decision that had given him birth?

Keel paused for a moment, and then spoke.

"Go ahead."

***

She had come into sickbay complaining of a sprained wrist, legacy of a game of Parisses Squares with Tasha Yar. Or at least that was what she said. Beverly had no reason to disbelieve her word, but she would not trust the woman any further than she had to, and that was not very far.

Cohen gazed steadily at the ever-changing display of the tricorder as Beverly moved it above her wrist. If eyes could have burned metal, Cohen's would have done so—cool, appraising, and without sign of human feeling. She could have been Vulcan, had they been capable of malicious pleasure. And had they been able to lie.

"You're right," said Beverly finally, reluctant to grant her the fact. "It is sprained."

"I can see that." Cohen nodded at the tricorder. "Actually I knew it the minute I fell on it."

"Amateur treatment isn't quite as easy as amateur diagnosis," Beverly replied, allowing a half-smile as she picked up the regenerator. "Better to avoid the fall if you can."

"As a dancer yourself, I'm sure you know that's not always possible."

_As a dancer._ Beverly snapped the regenerator shut before she could think. "How do you know that?"

The woman looked up—her dark eyes meeting Beverly's for the first time. And she hesitated. "It was obvious at the reception."

But untrue, untrue. Beverly felt a flutter at her heart. What else did Jack tell her? How odd. While he was alive, she had never doubted him. And now that he was ten years dead she was jealous, jealous of the pieces of Jack that this woman held. And afraid.

"Jack overestimated my abilities, you should know," Beverly said slowly—and very intentionally—as she gathered up her instruments.

"He would have been the first to admit it." Cohen was flexing her slim wrist back and forth, keenly observing its angles of motion. As keenly as she observed everything else.

_She probably saw more of him than I did…_ But that thought hurt too much. And the gingerness with which Cohen moved suggested that she, too, had more than a twinge of pain remaining. Beverly had perhaps not done as thorough a job as she might.

"Your wrist will be weak for a few days still," she said. "You'll need to avoid putting any unnecessary strain on it."

"I only ever do what's necessary," said Cohen concisely, getting to her feet without further leave, and straightening her uniform. Beverly envied her that, at least—the slit tunic over trousers worn by female security officers, and by other women who merited the luxury of being able to move freely. It might not have suited everyone. But to Cohen it lent a little grace and a sense of authority. Beverly, in her clinging Starfleet regulation dress, had no illusions that she would see service any more distant or more strenuous than in her own laboratories. Jean-Luc would never allow it.

_And I couldn't risk it. Not with the boys to think of…_

"I assume I'm free to go now?" asked Cohen brightly, her brief tunic swirling to a stop around her as she turned in the doorway of the examination room. An afterthought for the sake of appearances. She was political officer; she could go when she liked.

"Oh yes, you can go," responded Beverly, waving a hand at her. "There's nothing more I can do for you, short of a day in a regen field. And I'm sure you want to get back to work."

Something about the look in Cohen's eyes made Beverly catch her breath. It prepared her just a bit, moments before the woman spoke again, with a casualness that belied her intention.

"Speaking of work, I would be very interested to see this new laboratory of yours—having allocated the space, you know. I don't know much about the medical sciences, but I'm sure I'd learn quite a bit."

_The laboratory. The laboratory._ Relief and panic washed over Beverly in equal measure. _So that's what she wants._ It was a novel thought: to be damned for what she had chosen to do, for her present rather than her past. For something of which she was proud. But still it made no difference.__

Cohen could look where she liked on board the Enterprise, with the single exception of the Captain's quarters, and she could do what she liked with the information. Asking first was only a formality—and perhaps a way of assessing Beverly's reaction.

She held herself still and forced a smile. "Of course. I'd be happy to show you around. Next week, maybe?"

Cohen gave a succinct nod. "Monday."

"I'll make the preparations, then" said Beverly softly.

"Oh, and one more thing," Cohen added, halfway out into the corridor already. "Tell your son that Ten Forward is strictly off limits, whether he's there with Commander Riker or not."

***

Wesley took a breath. "Mom never talks about him, you know. I try and try to remember, but I can't. I look at his pictures, but when I close my eyes, I can't even see his face."

"You were very young, Wes. It's not surprising that you don't remember."

"I wish I did. You do," he added, and it sounded almost like an accusation.

There was no question of that. None at all.

"Of course I do," said Keel, and left it at that. "He was my friend."

"And Captain Picard's," echoed Wesley uneasily.

"Jack thought so—" Keel began, and then paused. "Captain Picard was your father's patron," he continued, in more measured tones, "the sort of ally that every officer needs in Starfleet to rise through the ranks. No man makes Commander at thirty without powerful friends. Jack knew how to make them, and he gave them his loyalty in return. As for friendship… well, I considered Jean-Luc Picard a friend too, for what that's worth. Not that I'm sure he ever understood the term."

"I do remember Captain Picard. When he came to bring my father's body home to us; I can still see his eyes." Wesley's own eyes were serious, haunted. "And he used to come and visit us, after dad died…"

"He was close to your mother," said Keel tersely. "Yes."

"And he is now."

"He is."

It was hardly a revelation. Everyone on board knew that by now; Wesley's intuitive knowledge almost certainly went further back. And he needs to know it—for his own safety if nothing else. Jean-Luc Picard's dark-haired stepchild, and unquestionably Jack's son… a fate that Keel wouldn't wish on his worst enemies. Sitting there, hands folded in his lap, Wesley looked just as fragile as his mother ever had. _The poor boy._

"Can you tell me how my father died?" asked Wesley, quietly.

And there was the final piece. Keel shifted in his seat, looked away towards the window. The stars, as uncompromising as fate. Jack's fate, at least.

"You probably know as much about it as I do," he replied, finally.

"I don't know anything about it!"

"Now, I find that difficult to believe." Keel studied the boy. "Your father always told me that you were very bright."

"Oh, I know what they tell me," said Wesley bitterly. "He died on Quetta. He was killed in a landslide. He was serving the Empire. He was a hero, Wesley." He paused. "I don't believe it."

"You have it straight from the inquiry into his death. I was allowed to read it then, and I still have it; I would let you see it if you asked. But I don't think you'll find that it adds much to your knowledge. Starfleet reports aren't known for their thoroughness."

"Do you believe it?" Wesley leaned forward just slightly, biting his lip with suppressed tension. Holding himself under uncertain control. His mother's son. "What really happened? Was it like—was it like the report said?"

Again, Keel paused before speaking. "I wouldn't swear to it," he said. "But I was lightyears away. One man did swear to it, and he was the only witness."

"Captain Picard."

"You have it."

Keel looked at Wesley, still leaning forward, utterly still, waiting to come to the point—what had surely been the point of his visit. The obvious conclusion. The only conclusion. And one that his mother, for all her brilliance, had never reached.

"Before we go any further," Keel said, "you need to realise that the only reason I'm discussing this with you is because you're Jack's son. Just talking about it endangers my position—as it endangers you. Anything that's said here has to stay between the two of us."

"I understand, sir." And Wesley took a shaky breath. "It's—it's true then. He killed my father."

"Very likely," said Keel slowly. "I've suspected as much, for many years now."

If he expected a reaction, Beverly's frantic denials, he would get none. Wesley sat as still as stone, disbelief still etched on his face. As if he had never thought to hear it said aloud. As if the sound of his own voice had made it so.

He was just a boy. Not a friend, not an ally. Most likely he would never be half of what Jack had been. Why, then, did Walker feel as if he were no longer alone? _Be careful, now. Be careful…_

He continued in the only way that he knew how.

"Starfleet has never acknowledged the possibility. Picard is a powerful man, and the inquiry was conducted very much on his terms. They accepted his word for what happened as a matter of course. Even if they hadn't, a panel of captains would hardly be too concerned about a captain assassinating one of his subordinates. Return the verdict, maybe—but it would be no harsher than self-defence. Not when they might be in a similar position themselves someday."

The compromises of command. Keel had made too many of them himself to apportion any blame.

"And this is all surmise, Wes," he continued, "pure and simple. There's no evidence that it wasn't an accident. I don't have it; nobody has it, as far as I know. There was nothing that I could have presented to Starfleet to change their conclusion, even if I had wanted to pursue the issue. Which I didn't."

"Why not?" asked Wesley, simply.

"What do you mean?"

"Why not?" Wesley repeated, more passionately this time, his anger cutting through the frail justifications of Starfleet procedure. "If you knew—you knew that he killed my father! You've known it for ten years! How could you have known, and let him get away with it, and not have done anything at all?"

"What would you have had me do?" Keel retorted, stung. "Go to Starfleet and tell them that I believed Jean-Luc Picard had murdered his first officer—why? Because Beverly Crusher told me that she'd been sleeping with him for two years before her husband died? It may be a betrayal, but it's no crime. God only knows it happens often enough…"

_What credibility would I have had? A fight over the widow is exactly what it looks like, nothing that anyone would want to get themselves involved in. My career would have been short enough after that. And it was just as likely, if he considered it, that Jack had found out about the affair and tried to kill Jean-Luc first. In which case it was self-defence after all._

Fruitless thoughts, ones that he had indulged far too many times already. Keel brought himself back to the here-and-now—and realised that Wesley was staring at him.

"You didn't know."

The boy silently shook his head.

"I'd wondered…" he said quietly, his voice half choked. All of a sudden he looked very young. And yet only five years younger than Jack had been when Walker had met him. Five years.

"It would have hurt your mother if I had tried to intervene," Keel went on blindly. What grace he thought Wesley's forgiveness could bring him, what power it would have, he had no idea. But still he craved it, as surely as if it had been Jack's. "If it had come out—people would have asked questions, questioned her involvement. It would have damaged her far more than him. It was better just to walk away. What I did, I did to protect her."

"She didn't deserve it," said Wesley bitterly.

But she did. And far more than Walker had been able to give her.

"There's one more thing about that report," he said awkwardly. "Your mother believed it, entirely. Never tell yourself otherwise."

But Wesley said nothing, only turned his face away.

***

_Wesley should be here to see this._ The thought came to her despite herself, in spite of the circumstances, in spite of all the panic and anger that up to the moment had been gripping her. They had evaporated as soon as she stepped out of the turbolift and saw, for the first time, the bridge of the Enterprise spread out before her.

The starfield alone was dazzling, blazing on the screen with a brilliance that still surprised her, as if she had never before seen the night sky. And around it swept the bridge, echoing the intensity of the stars—brilliantly lit, spacious, designed in two curving levels that emphasised the power and the grace which the ship possessed. Beverly had never seen its like before, except perhaps in the ostentatious grandeur of Starfleet Command. For all his greater experience, she doubted whether Jean-Luc had either. This was a Galaxy-class starship, the pinnacle of his career. _And of mine…_

With that thought she tore her eyes from the glory before her. It was none of her concern; she could not afford to stand there wondering and making herself conspicuous. There would be time for that later. So, lowering her gaze, she let her pose speak instead to the sloping burgundy carpet.

Will Riker, who had the chair, was already rising to his feet with an unconvincing show of respect and a faint look of surprise.

"Doctor Crusher. To what do we owe this pleasure?"

From her seat beside him, Cohen looked on with lazy interest. Beverly lacked clearance for the area, not being a bridge officer. Ordinarily, as CMO, she could have no excuse for presenting herself on the bridge without being summoned there. Ordinarily.

"I'm here to see the captain," she said simply.

"Of course you are."

And, of course, she was. So there you are. Beverly gave him a thin smile.

"He's in his ready room," said Riker, nodding down towards the door. "But he's very busy. I wouldn't interrupt him unless I was very sure that he wanted to see you."

"Neither would I."

As she made her way down the sloping ramp to the ready room, she could feel the eyes upon her. Although the lowered voices were indistinct, she could clearly make out the amused tone, and the words 'house call'. She did not look back.

***

She improved, Riker decided, from the rear. He only had a few moments to appreciate the view before the doors hissed shut behind her. Moments to enliven a dull shift, at least.

Cohen looked to him questioningly. "Like to know what they're talking about?"

He laughed. "Not too much talking, I'm sure."

"I wouldn't bet on it…"

"She does take advantage of her position," he said, thinking with a sting of injured pride of the rebuke that she had delivered over Wesley.

"It's not a position that I would want," replied Cohen archly. "Flat on your back, if you're lucky."

Riker gave her a smile at that, even though the joke was hardly original… and even though Cohen had not smiled herself.

"You know what they're discussing, don't you?" he essayed.

"I might be able to guess." Her acknowledgement was more than he had expected. "But I would hardly be a good political officer if I couldn't."

"Are you going to share?"

Her reply was concise, but complete. "What do you think?"

_Not a chance._ And for once he was actually right. Cohen sat as still as stone, calmly watching the captain's door. Riker waited a few more minutes before deciding to make one more attempt.

"You have reason to watch your back with her around, anyway."

"With Beverly?" she replied dismissively. "I hardly know her."

"Well, they say…" The anonymous, ever-present they. He leaned a bit closer, dropping his voice. "They say that you were having an affair with her husband. On the Stargazer."

How he had expected her to react, he didn't know. Her sudden recoil, her startled look, could have been shock, or guilt. The twitch about her lips could almost have been a smile.

"Jack? Of course not."

"Why 'of course'?"

"He was married—for one thing."

"Married? Would that stop you?"

Oddly enough, he almost believed her. But he didn't understand Sufiyyah Cohen in the slightest; he hardly could tell whether he liked her or not.

"Some people have different standards than you, Commander."

And now she was definitely smiling, a teasing grin. It was no answer but Riker decided, for the moment, not to press any further.

"So," he asked, "how long do you want to bet she'll stay in there…?"

***

It was a few moments before Picard looked up from the clutter of displays on his desk, and a few more before he focused on the woman in front of him.

"Beverly," he said curtly.

"I just need a few minutes, Jean-Luc."

Out of place, unsummoned, obviously intent on some mission of her own, or she would not have sought him out here. He could read it in her face, see it poised just on her lips. She stood before his desk, her hands clasped in front of her, looking at him with those clear blue-grey eyes. Ready to petition for whatever it was she wished to be granted.

"It's about your political officer," she continued, "if that makes any difference to you. I thought that you might want to hear it."

Not at all what he had expected. Picard steepled his fingers, leaning forward across the desk. "Cohen? What about her?"

"She wants a tour of my laboratories." Beverly paused. "My other laboratories, that is. Not the ones with Starfleet-approved cultures."

"Serious," acknowledged Picard tersely, leaning back again, as if he could thereby gain some perspective on the situation.

"You do know that my work there has been somewhat… unorthodox."

"How unorthodox—exactly?"

"Enough so that I was advised not to keep my plans for the work on Starfleet computers."

"Beverly," he said, a reproof so mild as to be practically nonexistent. She shrugged lightly, and was forgiven.

Yet Picard's thoughts were already light years away. Starfleet command gleamed in his mind's eye, distant, yet ringed by spheres within spheres, planets in their orbits and starships in their courses, mechanism and epicycle. All that complexity, that orrery of position and place—with his own not least among them— could be set into motion by the touch of one hand. Not his own.

Every captain an emperor in himself, unchecked by any authority higher than his own—such was the image at least, one which held sway over captain and crew alike. Yet it was not true now, and perhaps had never been true. In general, the idea was nothing more than a sham, a pretence believed by men anxious for grandeur; in the particular, it was a dangerous delusion. Picard possessed more clarity of thought than to be taken in by it.

If his own hand were sure, and if he acted without hesitation, it might yet be Cohen who was crushed between the wheels, and not himself. Yet the thing was finely balanced still, and it no longer depended simply on him…

Picard shifted, tugging down his uniform, and looked up at Beverly. She had moved closer to him while he was lost in thought, and was now leaning against the edge of his desk, one hip thrown forward—a pose almost studiedly casual, intimate somehow. The two of them against the world.

She too was lost in thought; unlike him, she thought out loud. "I assume that there's nothing we can do about the inspection. Not now, not with all these Starfleet brass on board. I'll have to show her the labs—show her something—but I can be selective about what it is. She's not a specialist, of course. She doesn't have the skills to assess biological research systematically. If I move a few specimens…"

"You'll have to be very confident about this," he said warningly.

"It will work, Jean-Luc. I'll stake my reputation on it; I'll have to."

Her look was ironic. Picard's involvement in prohibited biological research would certainly damage his career—perhaps end it, if his enemies at Command were to gain the upper hand. But Beverly's own subtle, persistent efforts; the trail leading back to her work at Starfleet Medical; the continuing research contravening all Imperial regulations… would most probably end her life. Such, he told himself, were the risks that she had chosen to take.

"As long as you realise that Commander Cohen may well not be satisfied with negative evidence, even if it's directly presented to her."

Beverly sighed. "This isn't the only thing that she's been prying into, you know."

"The woman seems to have made it her personal mission to be a thorn in my side," he responded. "Ever since the Stargazer. She and Jack…"

"Jack…?" echoed Beverly uncertainly, as if the name were alien to her.

Picard looked up. For just a moment, he had forgotten, believed that she was his alone. It could not have lasted.

"They were close," he said. "Too close for my taste." It had the advantage of being true, if not perhaps in the way that Beverly would read it. He would not have said it otherwise.

He expected her to challenge the idea, to ask him what he meant, to say something. But she did not. Instead she looked away, and Picard was briefly struck by the elegance of her profile.

"Well," she said softly, "I'd better get back to sickbay now."

***


	5. Chapter 5

He should not be going to see her; Keel knew that very well even before he walked through the sickbay doors. What did he care who Beverly Crusher slept with? It was none of his business—perhaps not then, and certainly not now. He should not allow himself to get involved.

Except that excuse fell flat right away. Who had introduced her to Jack, after all? He was involved already, whether he liked it or not. He could have ignored the fact, pretended it wasn't true… just the sort of thing that Beverly might do. That, in fact, was what he had done for the past ten years. Better, so he had thought, than getting burned, or ending up dead.

In the end he went to sickbay anyway. Not so different from Jean-Luc after all, he thought, walking in past Beverly's curious staff without saying a word.

He found her in her office, alone, working intently at a computer screen. The light cast patterns across her face in yellow and pale green. Walker stood in the hall at the edge of the glass partition, waiting for the right moment to clear his throat. It never came.

Beverly startled, looking up, and in one sudden movement shut down whatever it was that she had been studying, even before registering the identity of her visitor. Then, more controlled, she rose to her feet.

"Walker. I wasn't expecting you." Her voice was tense. "I assume this isn't an official visit. If it is, I'm hardly prepared…"

"No, I can't say that it is."

He would have asked whether he could take a seat, but Beverly was still on her feet behind the desk—vigilant, uncertain, unwilling to settle.

"In that case, this isn't really a good time."

"Beverly, will there ever be a good time?"

"No," she admitted.

"Really, I just came to see how you were."

"After ten years," she said flatly.

"After ten years."

The emotions flickering across her face were too subtle to read, changing with every heartbeat or blink of the eye. She moved again, as if to come out from behind the desk, but stopped herself with one hand against its corner.

When she spoke her voice was quiet. "It's not much of a coincidence, is it? That you would be interested now, after all this time."

"I always was interested."

"Then where were you, Walker?"

"You wouldn't have wanted to see me, Beverly. You wouldn't have wanted to be reminded. And given the circumstances, I didn't think you'd appreciate me interfering in your affairs." The final word had a bitter twist to it that he had not intended. "Neither would Jean-Luc," he added.

"You always thought you knew best."

"Maybe I did."  
She took an uneven breath. He did her the courtesy of taking his eyes off her, dropping his gaze to the polished surface of the desk in order to allow her to collect herself. Her reflection in it was crisp, clearly defined—more clear than the real woman.

"I'm reminded anyway," she said finally.

He followed her gaze down to the single picture on the desk: her two sons standing together at the summit of a mountain, presumably on Earth. Behind them, green hills stretched away to the horizon, and the sun shone. It was an idyll, an icon of a moment past that probably existed mostly in her mind. It was just the sort of place that Jack would have loved.

Walker could not ignore the fact that the picture proclaimed. There was Wesley, dark-haired, serious, just as he had seen him that very morning. And his younger brother, fairer, smiling, carefree… and the very image of Jack Crusher. He could not doubt it. _I was wrong, Beverly,_ he wanted to say, _about that at least. And I'm glad. I never should have said it._

"That must be James," he said.

She gave him a small nod and smiled despite herself. She was lucky, remarkably so, to have been allowed to bring the boys on board. Or maybe, thought Keel, thinking of Wesley and his fruitless anger, not so lucky at all.

"He looks just like Jack," he offered awkwardly.

"Yes," Beverly replied, her eyes filling with tears. "He does."

After that, there was nothing more for either of them to say.

***

The security report seemed unusually long to Picard that evening—both because he had not yet grown accustomed to the much larger crew complement of a Galaxy-class starship and because of the increased level of vigilance that the delegation's presence made necessary. Targets and sources of disaffection alike, the doings of Starfleet's finest would take up a large part of any political officer's time.

He intended to read the whole report, every paragraph, before signing off on it. It would not do to get sloppy. Cohen might not dare to omit information—not as long as both captain and first officer read her reports—but she could most certainly bury it. A captain could only succeed by considering every fact at his disposal, assembling in his mind small patterns of unassuming events, until they told him something more. Many a man had lost his command over lesser negligence than this.

And yet in the end the paragraph that leapt out at him, the small thing that read wrong, was not buried at all. It came near the front of the report, in the section devoted to the activities and contacts of the delegation's members—some of which made for very interesting reading indeed. This, by contrast, was far more mundane.

_16.27. Cpt. WALKER KEEL spoke to Cmdr. BEVERLY CRUSHER. CMO's office, Sickbay. No entry in medical log. No indication of subject._

After that slim entry, the report went on to treasons more obvious and more easily defined. Yet Picard read no further.

***

_He didn't just treat me like a boy,_ thought Wesley, and even now the thought still brought him a rush of triumph. Walker Keel, a Starfleet captain with his own ship to command; a contemporary of Captain Picard; a friend of his father—this man had treated him as an equal, as if he were someone of value. It was such joy that he could almost forget what it meant.

For it was no delusion, no figment conjured from his fading memories of childhood. He had been right. Keel believed it. It was so.

Wesley restlessly paced within the confines of his small windowless room, wanting to speak the words aloud, yet too afraid to do more than mouth them to himself. He did it. It's true. He wanted to cry, but he would not, not even when he was alone. Not even though his cheek still stung, and only half in memory…

"Wesley, we need to talk."

He glanced up at her as she came into the room, pulling off her lab coat. But he didn't really need to see. The weariness in her voice was clear, washing out the anger. So he ignored her and looked back to his book.

"Wesley," she said again, her voice sharper. She waited until he met her gaze before continuing. "You can start by telling me what you were doing in Ten Forward this morning."

For a moment he had no idea what she was talking about. The fact seemed so small, such a pitiful thing, that he just wanted to laugh. _I was in Ten Forward._ Of course he had been, a lifetime ago. _She has no idea._

"Why? Does it matter?"

"Yes, I think it does matter. It matters that it was Commander Cohen who saw you there, for one thing."

Cohen's words still echoed in his mind, much clearer than anything his mother had just said. _What if I had been Captain Keel?_ What if, indeed.

"Well? Wes?" She folded her arms impatiently. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I was just looking around. I didn't get into any trouble."

"You're in trouble just for being there." She sighed and sat down on the couch beside him, running a hand through her hair. "Wesley, do you remember how excited you were about coming on board the Enterprise? How you promised me that you would do whatever it took to be allowed to stay on board? That was about two weeks ago."

Wesley said nothing and looked at his mother silently, daring her to continue.

"I don't know what's gotten into you, Wes," she said finally. "You used to be so… I don't know. Not like this."

"I used to do just what you said, if that's what you mean."

"And that's exactly what you should be doing."

"I'm fifteen now, Mom. You can't keep me locked up."

"I can," she shot back, "and I could even if you weren't my son. I'm not having you sneak out to see Commander Riker—and after I expressly told you not to."

"It's better than sneaking out to see Captain Picard."

"I'm not discussing that with you," she said, all the emotion frozen out of her voice.

"No? Why not? It's true. Everyone knows it."

He was approaching the edge of the precipice again, that same one that had been absent from all his childhood maps. But he had been over it before. It had not shattered him. And this time, his footing was sound.

"It's none of your business," she replied. "It has nothing to do with you."

"But it had plenty to do with Dad, didn't it?"

Silence, again. But this time was different. His mother looked at her son as if she had never seen him before, all the colour draining from her face. In that stricken look Wesley had all the confirmation that Keel could not give him.

"I know, Mom," he said, getting to his feet, unable to bear sitting next to her for a moment longer. "I know exactly what happened. So don't try to tell me I'm wrong. I won't believe you."

"You have no idea what you're talking about, Wesley. You can't imagine."

"I don't want to imagine. How you and Captain Picard could—"

"You don't know the first thing about me or the decisions I've made," she interrupted, getting to her feet. "You're fifteen years old. You have no right…"

"I haven't got the right? And you do? You have the right to betray Dad like that? And to become Captain Picard's personal whore? I don't know how you can live with yourself."

Her voice went quiet, and cold. "I can live with myself because I am alive. And you and James are safe. That's all that's important to me. Nothing else matters."

"I'd rather be dead."

"I don't think you would."

"I'd rather you were dead, then. At least you deserve it."

Her hand moved so quickly that he hardly saw it; the last word was still half in his mouth when she slapped him across the face, as hard as she could. Wesley stared at her in amazement, the smart of his cheek stinging tears into his eyes. He recognized the desperation in the wide eyes of the woman who looked back at him, but he hardly recognized his own mother.

"There are some things," she said softly, "that are worse than death."

And of that he was certain. For there she stood in front of him, his mother, the woman who had fed him, and taught him, and wiped away his tears. And she thought that somehow she could be forgiven for what she had done.

Wesley saw it all with stomach-churning clarity now, mapped out before him as if it were charted in the half-disassembled circuit that now lay in pieces on his desk. A message was written for him there; one that he could not ignore. What Walker Keel had not dared to do, he must—and take the consequences, whatever those were.

_I would rather die,_ he thought, and wondered whether he believed it.

***

Hardly a word had passed between them that evening. As soon as she had come to him in his quarters, they had fallen into bed together, making love with an urgency that in retrospect had been driven by fear as much as by desire. Lust could be satisfied easily but now that it had been swept away, his doubt remained, coiled in the pit of his stomach.

Beverly was silent even now, pensively staring up at the stars as they slipped past overhead. He lay and watched her closely, as if by doing so he could divine some message in the repose of her pale face, or in the strands of her hair curled on the pillow. But if they were signs, they were mute and meaningless. Even her beauty was a trick of fate, composed of nothing more than the chance combinations of genes. Dust and ashes.  
Part of him wanted to stay silent; to ask nothing and answer nothing. To lean in and lose himself once again in her, not caring for the cost. But such possession was brief, and remoteness eternal. As he watched her, he was haunted by the vision of Beverly lying like this in the bed of another man—an image resurrected that should long since have been erased from his mind. This time, though, the man was not her husband.

He leaned towards her and felt her body stiffen—slightly but perceptibly.

"What is it, Beverly?"

"What do you mean?" Her voice was barely above a murmur, and her eyes remained on the distant stars.

"You've hardly been very communicative this evening—exclamations of pleasure excluded."

"I'm tired," she replied. The sigh in her voice did not give the lie to her words. "It's been a very long day."

"I don't doubt that it has."

"There was Cohen, and the lab," Beverly continued, intoning a litany of fatigue. "And Wesley—in Ten Forward, getting where he shouldn't be—and…"

She bit her lip suddenly, as if stopping herself from going further. Picard waited for a moment but she said no more.

"And Walker," he prompted.

"Walker?" The soft surprise in her voice roused an anger in him that he thought he had risen above. She could not possibly be surprised.

"You did speak with him today."

"Yes," she faltered, "yes, Jean-Luc, I did… But…"

"But you didn't feel it worth reporting to me, apparently."

She rolled onto her side to study him more closely. "I don't know what you would have had me report. He came to me; he didn't stay long."

"Just as he came to you after Jack's funeral."

"If you want to put it that way," she said cautiously. "He's an old friend…"

He could feel a slow rush of pleasure even at the situation in which he found himself, at the power he held over her. _This is nothing to do with jealousy,_ he told himself. _This is a matter of loyalty._ And he almost believed it.

"What did he discuss with you?"

"Nothing, Jean-Luc."

"Let me ask you again."

"Nothing," she repeated, her eyes widening in emphasis. "Nothing, really. It wasn't…"

"Two can play at this game, Beverly. I could choose to wash my hands of you—and tomorrow, if I wished."

What that meant, she would know just as well as him. How that would look—Beverly, his lover of twelve years, given as a sacrifice to Cohen, to the gods of Starfleet, to everyone who had dared to stand in his way. For him, every taint of disloyalty washed from his record. And for her…

It did not bear thinking of. Yet it might still be necessary. He could sacrifice Beverly and be free. _If I wished. If I wished…_

"But you won't," said Beverly urgently. Only now—or so it seemed—had she realised exactly how much importance he placed upon the meeting. Lying beside him on the pillow, she was watching him with an intensity that he had rarely seen from her before. "Jean-Luc, don't do this. Not now. We have to stay united if there's any chance of this succeeding. Whatever you think, it isn't true."

"Isn't it?"

"No, it isn't. Why would it be? What possible reason could I have?" She paused. "Jean-Luc, I've never lied to you. I've never betrayed you. I've sacrificed for you, again and again. You can't doubt my loyalty—not now."  
She reached out to lay her hand on his. It was meaningless, the simple contact of skin with skin, but he found himself surprised by the warmth of her touch. He steeled himself, as if by willing it he could keep the feeling from him.

"I could."

"But you don't," she said, softly insistent.

And she was right.

***

Beverly stepped under the shower and sighed, letting the last of her tension flow away with the hot water. Her nightgown still lay in a crumpled mess on the floor of the bathroom where she had peeled it off. Jean-Luc would not have approved; but then, Jean-Luc was not here. Only in the next room, waiting for her there. For the moment she was alone.

She stood motionless, eyes closed, luxuriating in the feeling of the torrent beating against her tender skin. Almost scalding. She didn't care. She would gladly have drowned in it. Her whole body still ached—memories of pleasure and pain mixed, as always with Jean-Luc. The heat of his touch. The taste of blood in her mouth. The insistence of his desire, and of hers. Those memories that she could never erase.

And even so, only one memory was real to her, and only one pain. Whatever Jean-Luc believed, only one thought had been in her mind even as she spoke to Keel. And it returned to her even now, when it should have been so far away. _Jack, Jack... How could you have done it… _

No one, perhaps, would have thought it at all surprising. Such things happened on long tours of duty, and Starfleet officers were hardly known for their fidelity. Beverly had never looked askance at those who found themselves trading virtue for necessity—as she herself had done.

_But not Jack… Not Jack… It can't be true. Jean-Luc didn't mean to say—I would have known…_

The steamy air was half-stifling; Beverly breathed as slowly as she could, trying to steady herself against the crowding memories, light-headed and sick with herself. The worst of it was that the only reassurance she craved was the warmth of his arms around her. If she could have felt that, she would have forgiven him anything. And it was the one thing that she would never feel again.

All that recalled her to herself were the faint treble tones of music playing in the next room. In such quiet tones, it spoke of where she was, and whose she was. And how she had come there. Captain Picard's whore. As if she didn't know.

So she stood under the running water, and thought of Jack despite herself, and let her hot tears mingle with the streaming water.

***

He could see how still Beverly held herself, how inconspicuous—how unlike her. Her uniform was regulation, unadorned; her hair was gathered simply at the nape of her neck. Odd how its colour could sometimes seem so dimmed from its usual brilliant hue.

It was wise of her to wish to be self-effacing. Most of all in front of Cohen—that slight woman, so unremarkable in herself, who hung a few steps behind as they made their way to Beverly's laboratory. And perhaps just as much in front of him—for he had not yet entirely forgiven her. He had only chosen to trust her, and with his life at that. Perhaps things would have been different if she had realised it.

Their walk along the quiet corridors had the air of an official progress, with none of the noise or pomp—as with many inspections, the most important was that with the least ceremony. Although he had insisted that Tasha Yar be present, it was a matter of safety rather than display. One could not be too careful.

Yar walked ahead of him, along with Beverly, while Picard was left in uneasy symmetry with his political officer, whom above all others he had reason to fear. She said nothing—for she had no need to—and he adjusted his pace to her own. Yet he looked ahead, and found himself watching Beverly's long, graceful strides.

Pausing finally at the entrance to the turbolift, Beverly glanced back at Picard enquiringly, and her eyes met his. Seeking reassurance even now. He held her gaze for a moment, and then turned back to Cohen.

"If you'll just come this way, Commander."

Beverly stood to one side to allow them to enter the turbolift. Tasha Yar led the way; he began to follow.

There was an explosion. The world went black.

***


	6. Chapter 6

Her hands were slick with his blood and they held his life entirely. Beverly could feel her own short panicky breaths and the shudder of her heart in her ribcage as if they belonged to someone else. _Shock._ The prickle of the scorched uniform against her burnt skin cut through the strongest painkillers that she had dared to dose herself with—and had there been time to object to her orders, the sickbay staff would never have allowed her to take her place in surgery. She felt someone brushing her hair out of her face and gently pulling on a surgical mask, as if it were a dream. And she looked to Jean-Luc, lying on the table in front of her.

Shock. His chest was half burned away, internal haemorrhaging severe. Only a hypospray had stopped him from convulsing. His artificial heart was still beating—there was that at least, he had not needed resuscitation—but drawn down to its lowest rate in order to ease the bleeding. If Tasha Yar's body had not shielded him from the force of the blast, he would most surely have died. He might die yet.

It was like every nightmare she had ever had about losing Jack—one chance to save her husband's life, repeated mercilessly night after night for years, until those dream surgeries had seemed more real to her than waking life. There was only one difference: she had never wished for Jack's death.

_Nothing I could do. Nothing anyone could have done. No one could blame me…_

So easy to slip, to allow the fine thread that bound her life and his to be broken at last. To finally be free, of him and of the past.

Fate had placed this chance in her hands, so easily grasped—and it was her hands that betrayed her, never pausing or faltering, moving as surely as if she were demonstrating in an operating theatre at Starfleet Medical. And after a few moments she could hardly believe that those thoughts had been her own.

***

She had never prayed. She kept her vigil over him for the length of that long, long night, after the emergency team had gone and after her own injuries had been finally, carefully healed. He was never really out of danger—not on board the Enterprise.

Sickbay at night was another realm entirely, ruled by monitors rather than people, quiet and dim and almost peaceful. The lights of the machines blinked slowly and silently, secondary stars scattered around the room, glowing where Beverly herself had placed them. Jean-Luc slept under sedation, his breathing even and without pain. And Beverly stayed by his bedside.

Sleep came to her so subtly that she hardly noticed. When she lifted her head again the room was so unchanged that she might never have slept at all. The lights would go on blinking their patterns through the night, patiently signing the reassurance that all was well. She would have fallen back into her dreams, lulled by those soft repetitions, if she had not seen him then. A shadow standing tentatively in the doorway. Wesley.

There was no telling how long he had stood there, silent. For an agonizingly suspended moment, his eyes stayed fixed on Picard across the room. And then he raised them to meet his mother's gaze. His face was deathly pale and it was no trick of the light. If she moved at all, if she said anything, she would break the spell.

Long ago, all in one shattering revelation, Beverly had come to know exactly how her husband had died. This realisation, the twist in her stomach so strong that it made her want to gasp for breath, was no different.

_It was Wesley. _

"Go back to our quarters," said Beverly, her voice barely pitched above the hum of the life support machines, "and stay there."

Slowly, so slowly, he backed away and the door hissed closed. Beverly was left to the quiet of sickbay, to the quiet panic that clutched at her own heart.

***

They said that one drifted upwards into consciousness, but he had never believed it. Every slow thought brought him mortal pain. It was only through the exercise of all his self-mastery that he finally opened his eyes.

"What happened?" he whispered, his voice a harsh rasp in his own ears. He squinted against the pitiless lights of sickbay, allowed his eyes to fall closed once again. "How long have I been out?"

"Eighteen hours."

The soft reply would have been no reassurance if it had not been Beverly's voice. He could feel the steady, gentle pressure of her hand on his upper arm.

"What…"

He fought to sit up, just to take control of his own body. And it betrayed him. All he could do was move his hand, clutching weakly at the fabric of her lab coat.

"Jean-Luc," came her soothing, insistent voice. "Don't move, lie still. You'll be all right."

"Beverly, please… tell me what happened…"

It was intended to be a command, but it came out as a plea, an admission of his own desperate helplessness. He tightened his hand to the limits of his strength, but he knew that it was nothing, that she could still pull out of his grasp with ease.

"There was a plasma explosion just inside the turbolift. Not an accident; a forced overload of one of the EPS conduits. Cohen thinks that the circuit was keyed to your comm badge. She's not badly injured, I'm all right… Tasha Yar is dead. She took most of the blast herself. And you…"

"An assassination attempt," he murmured, seizing on the only information that really mattered. "Who…?"

"We don't know yet. Cohen has begun the investigation, but with Tasha gone…"

Picard rolled his head to one side, the only movement that he could make without pain. Frustration and agony boiled together. He must do something and yet he could barely breathe, barely think. He was vulnerable, appallingly so, and he had only one lifeline.

"Beverly. Stay here. For now."

"Jean-Luc," she replied, "I haven't left your side for the last eighteen hours."

A multiplicity of possibilities whirled dizzily in his mind. _The laboratory, an attempt to derail the negotiations, a personal grudge…_ Someone trying to stop the inspection—but that was ridiculous, it would be in the interest of no one but Beverly and himself. Someone trying to eliminate as many of the senior staff as possible in one stroke—but why key the circuit to one comm badge, then? There would have been no guarantee that he would not enter the turbolift alone… There was something that he was missing…

"Cohen?" He forced himself to speak his thoughts aloud, forced himself to concentrate, unwilling to allow himself to slip away again. "No, no motive. Riker? Too soon, not his style…"

"Jean-Luc," said Beverly again. "Please. You're very weak. Let yourself rest."

He was so very tired. Even Beverly's gentle touch drove an ache into his bones. But he managed one more sentence.

"Who do you suspect?"

Beverly replied without hesitation.

"Walker Keel."

***

It was the middle of the night, for him at least. Even on board a starship, that ancient diurnal cycle still had some meaning, a trait of nature buried so deeply that not even all the technology of the empire could erase it. Keel sat up in bed, still in his pyjamas—alone, thank god—and listened as Cohen told him, in a voice perfectly calm, that he was to be detained at the pleasure of the captain.

"What the hell is this, Sufiyyah?" he asked, trying to shake off the fog of his dreams. "Are Nechayev and Jellico aware? On what prerogative?"

"Treason." A small regenerator nestled unobtrusively at the base of her neck, so subtle that it looked more a piece of jewellery than a medical device. The light was so dim that he had missed it at first. "There's been an attempt on the captain's life—a forced overload of an EPS conduit, keyed to his comm badge."

"And I'm supposed to have had something to do with that?"

She shrugged ever so slightly, dissociating herself from interest in the act even as she bore the mark of its consequences. "Time will tell."

"I'll come," he said. "Just let me get into my uniform first."

The chill he felt in the air was perhaps a trick of his mind, his metabolism at a low ebb in the early hours of the morning. The single light at his bedside cast his elongated shadow across the floor, distorted by the angle and by his motions as he dressed. Keel pulled on his uniform jacket as quickly as he could, as if it could protect him from what lay ahead.

He had seen such things often enough, even ordered them himself—men dragged out of their beds still in their nightclothes, or even less; exhibited publicly to the crew, or to the galaxy; and taken to their deaths humiliated, shorn of every vestige of dignity they possessed. Despite all the risks entailed by a position of authority in Starfleet, he had never thought that he himself could one day be brought to such a pass. For the moment he was being treated with more respect than that, but he was not so optimistic as to believe that it would last. Or that he would be Picard's only victim.

"I'm supposed to have made the attempt alone?" he asked, carefully.

"So they tell me," answered the woman standing in the corner of his room, half in shadow. "But I wouldn't know. I was only there."

He straightened up to look her in the eye.

"Just like you were there on Quetta."

"Exactly," she replied.

***

For all he knew, Wesley could be dead already. The world could have ended, and he would have known nothing. In that solitary cell, with just his thoughts for company, the only sign of the universe outside was the thrum of the Enterprise's warp engines in the deck underneath his feet. He saw neither Cohen, nor Jean-Luc, nor—though he should not have hoped—Beverly. All he could do was exist, and wonder whether he had been left there to rot.

He would have liked to have been able to say—had there been anyone to ask—that he had used the time to reflect, to consider himself and the course of his life. But it was not so. Left there, staring at the featureless beige walls, his mind was dull and empty, as if it was only the stimulus of events that had ever stirred it to activity. He thought of Jack, and of Wesley, and his thoughts slipped away again. He attempted to plan, to predict what the future would hold—but for all his training in strategy and tactics, six years at Starfleet Academy, it was of no use. He had reached the end of the road.

***

The colours jarred his eyes. After three days of solitary existence, they seemed more brilliant than anything he had seen before: the deep purple of Picard's tunic; the brassy red of Beverly's hair; her royal blue uniform. Reprieved however briefly into life, Keel found himself dazzled by its reality.

Yet Picard proved that life was a tenuous thing. When Keel was ushered in, he was already seated. Even after all those years, Keel knew the man well enough to read the lines of pain on his face and to guess at the still-healing wounds hidden beneath his loose tunic. If this were not sufficient, there was Beverly standing anxious and vigilant at her captain's shoulder, her ashen face speaking as eloquently as her silence.

The assassination attempt had come with a hair's-breadth of succeeding. Cohen, with her dislocated vertebrae and cracked ribs, had only been a bystander. And the three-day delay in Keel's interrogation had not been a matter of policy, nor even of strategy, but simply the lapse of time before Picard was stable enough to be allowed to leave sickbay, even for an hour.

_So the great man is brought low at last._ The thought came to Keel unbidden, and it brought him little pleasure. _You did a good job,_ he thought bleakly, to that anonymous assassin whom he thought he knew very well. _But not nearly good enough._

"I presume that you understand why you've been brought here," said Picard finally, in a voice both low and raw.

"I know that I was thrown into the brig on the exercise of your own personal prerogative. If there's more detail to the story, I'd be happy to hear it."

The forced casualness of his words, one captain to another, rang hollow even in his own ears. It was like walking across someone's grave. Picard was silent, fighting the pain that it cost him to speak; Beverly looked distraught and deathly pale, still in shock. And here sat Keel, hale and hearty and fully alive. Yet only one grave was being dug and that was his own.

"I have no doubt that you're aware of exactly what happened."

Keel said nothing. Cohen's account had been succinct but clear in every particular. He knew enough—enough at least to play the role that he had been given--and perhaps more of the true course of events than Picard did. That small blessing was the anchor to which Keel clung.

"Do you deny that you had reason to wish to assassinate me?" continued Picard, his self-command underlining his perfect control. For all his injuries he was still a captain, holding absolute power over his ship and all who travelled in her, and seeing only what he wished to see.

"No, I don't deny it," replied Keel. "But I rather thought that you would come to it first, old friend. Because your friends don't tend to live very long, do they? Donald Varley, dead. Corey Zweller, dead. Paul Manheim, dead—and you know as well as I do that was no laboratory accident. Jack Crusher…"

At the mention of that name, unspoken between them for so long, worlds should have shaken. Yet Picard's face remained immobile and Keel's own voice was unnaturally steady. It was only the stricken look in Beverly's eyes that spoke for the three of them all together. And Keel trailed off, cursing himself even now for lacking the strength to hurt her.

"So really," he went on, "I knew that it was only a matter of time. And now you have me exactly where you want me."

In fact both of them were trapped. Picard's verdict would not change—whatever the truth turned out to be, and whatever evidence he had to manufacture in order to make it appear otherwise. Having brought in a fellow starship captain on the charge of treason—with the consent, so it seemed, of Starfleet—Picard could not survive the loss of face that an admission of error would entail. There would be no going back. Keel was as good as dead already, with only one choice left to him. He could not save himself. He could not now save Jack. But he might yet save Wesley.

"Do you deny responsibility for the attempt that was made on my life four days ago?"

Keel took a breath and then answered calmly. "No, I don't."

In a way, it was even true.

"Did you act alone?"

"Entirely alone."

"Will you testify formally to your guilt?"

"I will."

Picard had fallen into the pattern of question and answer with the readiness of a weary traveller finding a well-worn path. He would not doubt further.

Yet Beverly—Beverly betrayed herself. Eyes wide and disbelieving, she stared at Keel, and he met her gaze, just for a moment. In that unguarded look he could read everything that she had hidden from Picard. She knew very well what Wesley had done; she knew what Keel was now doing. Even so, she had made her choice: she would stand by her lover's side, and keep silent.

And Keel would let her.

***

The chirp of the door chime sounded like a death knell. Wesley froze where he sat, his heart pounding in his chest. Three days and two nights he had spent in fear, knowing that he would die for what he had done—for what he had failed to do. And now…

_That's it—they're here—they've come to take me away._ He could hardly breathe. For one brief, fevered moment, he thought he would just not answer the door; he would hide, run away. But where on board a starship could he run? Even at fifteen, he was not so naive as to think that he could long evade a Starfleet security team. He would have to face them. It was what his father would have done.

So with slow, reluctant steps, Wesley made his way to the door and tabbed it open. On the other side there was no security detail, no phasers drawn, no images from his nightmares—just Sufiyyah Cohen, and she was alone.

Briefly she regarded him, chin raised. Then without a word she stepped inside and let the door hiss closed behind her.

"You know what you've done," she said simply.

"Yes," replied Wesley.

"Captain Picard doesn't."

He stared at her.

"Walker Keel is dying for your sins right now. I hope you feel that it was worth it."

Wesley shook his head. "I don't understand…"

"You're lucky that Picard would rather take the chance to eliminate an old rival than pursue a thorough investigation. Because it's very clear, to me at least, what he'd find. There's no evidence that Keel was directly involved; the wiring work was far too amateur for anyone with his level of experience. On the other hand, it's perfectly consistent with the abilities of a clever fifteen-year-old. I know that you spoke to Walker Keel six days ago; I know that you were seen in the vicinity of the laboratories three days ago; and I know that Captain Picard killed your father. It all adds up."

She spoke so steadily, as if the last in the series of facts were just like any other.

"You knew? You knew about my father."

"It was obvious to anyone with eyes to see." She paused. "You're very lucky that I have no reason to want you brought to justice—a fifteen-year-old would-be assassin is no concern of mine, if he has no political motives. Which you don't. I'm not going to tell anyone."

Laugh or cry, it was all the same to him. He stood, his senses setting numb, and listened as this pitiless woman told him that she had chosen to spare his life. For no reason that he could discern, and for no reason that he deserved.

"Captain Keel is dead?" he asked finally, after long moments of silence.

"He's been forty minutes in the agony booth. If he isn't now, he will be soon."

He had seen executions before, onscreen at least, but the screams and the agony had never seemed real before, never more than a fantasy or a show. All he had now were the images in his own mind, and even so he could scarcely bear to think of them.

"It's my opinion that he confessed on your behalf," she continued, "out of loyalty to Jack, and because you were Jack's son. You might be comforted to know that."

He wasn't; not at all.

"He shouldn't have," said Wesley convulsively. "I wish he hadn't."

"But he did. And you should realise that; you owe him that much at least."

"I owe him…" Wesley trailed off, unable to put into words what he owed Keel, or even to bear the thought of it. "But why are you telling me this? What do you want from me?"

"I want nothing at all from you. I want quite a bit from your mother."

"My mother? Why?"

"That's for me to know," replied Sufiyyah Cohen calmly.

***

The agony booth had been improved immeasurably over the past fifty years. Beverly could well remember the lectures at the academy, the facts impressed on her mind in lurid detail. The exquisite sensitivity required to stimulate nerves with such pinpoint accuracy; the way that permanent nerve damage was, for the most part, avoided; the odds of death.

For subjects still died, from heart failure rather than from the direct physiological effects of the booth. A remarkably inefficient way to kill a man, in medical terms. Yet for all that, an hour in the booth was no less a death sentence. Beverly had no illusions that Keel would be released if by some miracle he survived the duration.

The slow drift of pain receptors across her mind's eye, like autumn leaves, did nothing to block out the agony of the man in front of her. Walker Keel, one of her oldest friends, and the closest thing to a father that she had ever had, hung in the field, and sobbed aloud like a child far younger than her own. Beverly's body burned in sympathy, with the futile longing to offer some sort of comfort. She forced herself to look down, bit her lip until it bled, but then raised her face to him once more.

For all her theoretical knowledge Beverly could not tell whether he could still see her, or even whether he was aware of her presence. Walker stared fixedly ahead, his face contorted, but far more set than the subjects upon whom she had experimented in medical school. His training in Starfleet Intelligence had taught him how to resist torture, and resist it he could—but not for long. And as Beverly watched, he was crumbling, minute after minute, as his control began to ebb. She would not have fought. She would have let it take her away.

"Walker," she said softly. "Walker, I'm here."

But the screaming didn't stop and there was no sign that he had heard.

She could, perhaps, have put him out of his misery, given him something to hasten his death—quietly, without being noticed. But she had not dared.

So she watched, and sobbed along with him, far past caring how such a thing might look. She cried as if the tears could wash away her guilt. But the tears were not nearly enough.

~The End~

> "Which anguish was the utterest—then—  
> To perish, or to live?"
> 
> \--Emily Dickinson


End file.
